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Coi'VKIOHT, 1900, BY W. B. CONKEY CuMKANV, 



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PREFACE TO THE FIRST AND SECOND 
CANTOS. 

The following poem was written, for the 
most part, amidst the scenes which it attempts 
to describe. It was begun in Albania; and 
the parts relative to Spain and Portugal were 
composed from the author's observations in 
those countries. Thus much it may be neces- 
sary to state for the correctness of the descrip- 
tions. The scenes attempted to be sketched 
are in Spain, Portugal, Epirus, Acarnania and 
Greece. There, for the present, the poem 
stops: its reception will determine whether the 
author may venture to conduct his readers to 
the capital of the East, through Ionia and 
Phrygia : these two Cantos are merely experi- 
mental. 

A fictitious character is introduced for the 
sake of giving some connection to the piece ; 
which, however, makes no pretensions to reg- 
ularity. It has been suggested to me by 
friends, on whose opinions I set a high value, 
that in this fictitious character, "Childe Har- 
old," I may incur the suspicion of having in- 
3 



4 PREFACE. 

tended some real personage : this I beg leave, 
once for all, to disclaim. Harold is a child of 
imagination for the purpose I have stated. In 
some very trivial particulars, and those merely 
local, there might be grounds for such a 
notion ; but in the main points, I should hope, 
none whatever. 

It is almost superfluous to mention that the 
appellation "Childe," as "Childe Walters," 
"Childe Childers, " etc., is used as more conso- 
nant with the old structure of versification 
which I have adopted. The "Good-Night/' in 
the beginning of the first Canto, was suggested 
by "Lord Maxwell's Good-Night," in the 
"Border Minstrelsy," edited by Mr. Scott. 

With the different poems which have been 
published on Spanish subjects, there may be 
found some slight coincidence in the first part 
which treats of the Peninsula : but it can only 
be casual, as, with the exception of a few con- 
cluding stanzas, the whole of this poem was 
written in the Levant. 

The stanza of Spenser, according to one of 
our most successful poets, admits of every 
variety. Dr. Beattie makes the following 
observation : — ' ' Not long ago, I began a poem 
in the style and stanza of Spenser, in which I 
propose to give full scope to my inclination, 



PREFACE. 5 

and be either droll or pathetic, descriptive or 
sentimental, tender or satirical, as the humor 
strikes me : for, if I mistake not, the measure 
which I have adopted admits equally of all 
these kinds of composition. " Strengthened in 
my opinion by such authority, and by the ex- 
ample of some in the highest order of Italian 
poets, I shall make no apology for attempts at 
similar variations in the following composition ; 
satisfied that, if they are unsuccessful, their 
failure must be in the execution rather than in 
the design, sanctioned by the practice of 
Ariosto, Thomson, and Beattie. 
London, February, 1812. 



ADDITION TO THE PREFACE. 

I have now waited till almost all our period- 
ical journals have distributed their usual por- 
tion of criticism. To the justice of the gener- 
ality of their criticisms I have nothing to 
object: it would ill-become me to quarrel with 
their very slight degree of censure, when, per- 
haps, if they had been less kind, they had been 
more candid. Returning, therefore, to all and 
each my best thanks for their liberality, on one 
point alone shall I venture an observation. 
Amongst the many objections justly urged to 



6 PREFACE. 

the very indifferent character of the "vagrant 
Childe" (whom, notwithstanding many hints 
to the contrary, I will maintain to be a ficti- 
tious personage), it has been stated that, 
besides the anachronism, he is very unknightly, 
as the times of the Knights were times of 
Love, Honor, and so forth. Now, it so hap- 
pens that the good old times, when 'Tamour 
du bon vieux temps, l'amour antique" flour- 
ished, were the most profligate of all possible 
centuries. Those who have any doubts on 
this subject may consult Saint-Palaye, passim, 
and more particularly vol. ii., p. 69. T*he 
vows of chivalry were no better kept than any 
other vows whatsoever; and the songs of the 
Troubadours were not more decent, and cer- 
tainly were much less refined, than those of 
Ovid. The "Cours d'amour, parlemens 
d'amour, ou de courtesie et de gentilesse, " 
had much more of love than of courtesy or 
gentleness. See Roland on the same subject 
with Saint-Palaye. Whatever other objection 
may be urged to that most unamiable person- 
age, Childe Harold, he was so far perfectly 
knightly in his attributes — "No waiter but a 
knight templar."* By the by, I fear that Sir 
Tristram and Sir Lancelot were no better than 

* The Rovers, or the Double Arrangement. 



PREFACE. 7 

they should be, although very poetical person- 
ages and true knights, "sans peur, " though 
not "sans reproche. " If the story of the insti- 
tution of the "Garter*' be not a fable, the 
knights of that order have for several centu- 
ries borne the badge of a Countess of Salisbury, 
of indifferent memory. So much for chivalry. 
Burke need not have regretted that its days 
are over, though Marie Antoinette was quite 
as chaste as most of those in whose honor 
lances were shivered and knights unhorsed. 

Before the days of Bayard, and down to those 
of Sir Joseph Banks (the most chaste and cele- 
brated of ancient and modern times), few ex- 
ceptions will be found to this statement : and 
I fear a little investigation will teach us not 
to regret these monstrous mummeries of the 
middle ages. 

I now leave "Childe Harold" to live his 
day, such as he is. It had been more agree- 
able, and certainly more easy, to have drawn 
an amiable character. It had been easy to 
varnish over his faults, to make him do more 
and express less; but he never was intended as 
an example, further than to show that early 
perversion of mind and morals leads to satiety 
of past pleasures and disappointment in new 
ones, and that even the beauties of nature and 



8 PREFACE. 

the stimulus of travel (except ambition, the 
most powerful of all excitements) are lost on a 
soul so constituted, or rather misdirected Had 
I proceeded with the poem, this character 
would have deepened as he drew to the close ; 
for the outline which I once meant to fill up 
for him was, with some exceptions, the sketch 
of a modern Timon, perhaps a poetical Zeluco. 
London, 1813. 



"L'univers est une espece dc livrc, dont on 
n'a lu que la premiere page quand on n'a vu 
que son pays. J 'en ai feuillete un assez grand 
nombre, que j'ai trouve egalement mauvaises. 
Cet examen ne m'a point ete infructueux. Jc 
haissais ma patrie. Toutes les impertinences 
des peuples divers, parmi lesquels j'ai vecu 
m'ont reconcilie avec elle. Quand je n'aurais 
tire d'autre benefice de mes voyages que 
celui-la, je n'en regretterais ni les frais ni les 
fatigues." — Le Cosmopolite. 



TO IANTHE.* 

Not in those climes where I have late been 

straying, 
Though Beautvlonsr hath there been match- 

less deem'd, 
Not in those visions to the heart displaying 
Forms which it sighs but to have only 

dream'd, 
Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy 

seem'd: 
Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek 
To paint those charms which varied as they 

beam'd — 
To such as see thee not my words were weak ; 
To those who gaze on thee, what language 

could they speak? 

Ah! may'st thou ever be what now thou art, 
Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring, 
As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart, 
Love's image upon earth without his wing, 
And guileless beyond Hope's imagining! 
And surely she who now so fondly rears 

* Lady Charlotte Harley, daughter of the Earl of Oxford, 
afterwards Lady C. Bacon. 

11 



12 TO IANTHE. 

Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening, 
Beholds the rainbow of her future years. 
Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disap- 
pears. 

Young Peri of the West!— 'tis well for me 
My years already doubly number thine ; 
My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee, 
And safely view thy ripening beauties shine : 
Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline; 
Happier, that while all younger hearts shall 

bleed, 
Mine shall escape the doom thine eyes assign 
To those whose admiration shall succeed, 
But mix'd with pangs to Love's even loveliest 

hours decreed. 

Oh! let that eye, which, wild as the gazelle's, 
Now brightly bold or beautifully shy, 
Wins as it wanders, dazzles where it dwells, 
Glance o'er this page, nor to my verse deny 
That smile for which my breast might vainly 

sigh, 
Could I to thee be ever more than friend : 
This much, dear maid, accord: nor question 

why 
To one so young my strain I would com- 
mend. 



TO IANTHE. 13 

But bid me with my wreath one matchless lily 
blend . 

Such is thy name with this my verse en- 
twined ; 
And long as kinder eyes a look shall cast 
On Harold's page, Ianthe's here enshrined 
Shall thus be first beheld, forgotten last : 
My days once number'd, should this homage 

past 
Attract thy fairy fingers near the lyre 
Of him who hail'd thee, loveliest as thou 

wast, 
Such is the most my memory may desire ; 
Though more than Hope can claim, could 
Friendship less require? 



Childe Harold's Pilgrimage, 



lSl2. 



CANTO THE FIRST, 
i. 

Ok, thou in Hellas deem'd of heavenly birth, 
Muse, form'd or fabled at the minstrel's will! 
Since shamed full oft by later lyres on earth, 
Mine dares not call thee from thy sacred 

hill: 
Yet there I've wander'd by thy vaunted rill; 
Yes! sigh'd o'er Delphi's long-deserted 

shrine,* 
Where, save that feeble fountain, all is still ; 
Nor mote my shell awake the weary Nine 
To grace so plain a tale — this lowly lay of mine. 

*The little village of Castri stands partly on the site of 
Delphi. Along the path of the mountain, from Chrysso, are the 
remains of sepulchres hewn in and from the rock; "one," said 
the guide, "of a king who broke his neck hunting." His majesty 
had certainly chosen the fittest spot for such an achievement. A 
little above Castri is a cave, supposed the Pythian, of immense 
depth; the upper part of it is paved, and now a cow-house. On 
the other side of Castri stands a Greek monastery: some way 
above which is the cleft in the rock, with a range of caverns diffi- 
cult of ascent, and apparently leading to the interior of the 
mountain, probably to the Corycian Cavern mentioned by 
Pausanias. From this part descend the fountain and the "Dews 
of Castalie." 

15 



16 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

II. 
Whilome in Albion's isle there dwelt a youth, 
Who ne'er in virtue's ways did take delight; 
But spent his days in riot most uncouth, 
And vex'd with mirth the drowsy ear of 

Night. 
Ah, me ! in sooth he was a shameless wight, 
Sore given to revel and ungodly glee ; 
Few earthly things found favour in his sight 
Save concubines and carnal companie, 
And flaunting wassailers of high and low 

degree. 

in. 
Childe Harold was he hight; — but whence 

his name 
And lineage long, it suits me not to say ; 
Suffice it, that perchance they were of fame, 
And had been glorious in another day: 
But one sad losel soils a name for aye, 
However mighty in the olden time ; 
Nor all that heralds rake from coffin 'd clay, 
Nor florid prose, nor honey' d lines of rhyme, 
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime. 

IV. 

Childe Harold bask'd him in the noontide sun, 

Disporting there like any other fly, 

Nor deem'd before his little day was done 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 17 

One blast might chill him into misery. 
But long ere scarce a third of his pass'd by, 
Worse than adversity the Childe befell ; 
He felt the fulness of satiety: 
Then loathed he in his native land to dwell, 
Which seem'd to him more lone than Eremite's 
sad cell. 

v. 
For he through Sin's long labyrinth had -run, 
Nor made atonement when he did amiss, 
Had sigh'd to many, though he loved but 

one, 
And that loved one, alas, could ne'er be his. 
Ah, happy she! to 'scape from him whose 

kiss 
Had been pollution unto aught so chaste ; 
Who soon had left her charms for vulgar 

bliss, 
And spoil' d her goodly lands to gild his waste, 
Nor calm domestic peace had ever deign'd to 

taste. 

VI. 

And now Childe Harold was sore sick at 

heart, 
And from his fellow bacchanals would flee ; 
'Tissaid, at times the sullen tear would start, 
But pride congeal'd the drop within 1iis e'e. 



18 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Apart he stalk'd in joyless reverie, 
And from his native land resolved to go, 
And visit scorching climes beyond the sea: 
With pleasure drugg'd, he almost longed for 

woe, 
And e'en for change of scene would seek the 

shades below. 

VII. 

The Childe departed from his father's hall: 

It was a vast and venerable pile; 

So old, it seemed only, not to fall, 

Yet strength was pillar'd in each massy aisle. 

Monastic dome! condemn'd to uses vile! 

Where Superstition once had made her den, 

Now Paphian girls were known to sing and 

smile ; 
And monks might deem their time was come 

agen, 
If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy 

men. 

VIII. 

Yet oftimes, in his maddest mirthful mood, 
Strange pangs would flash along Childe 

Harold's brow 
As if the memory of some deadly feud 
Or disappointed passion lurk'd below: 
But this none knew, nor haply care to know; 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 19 

For his was not that open, artless soul 
That feels relief by bidding sorrow flow, 
Nor sought he friend to counsel or condole 
Whate'er this grief mote be, which he could 
not control. 

IX. 

And none did love him : though to hall and 

bower 
He gather'd revellers from far and near, 
He knew them flatterers of the festal hour ; 
The heartless parasites of present cheer. 
Yea, none did love him — not his lemans 

dear — 
But pomp and power alone are woman's care, 
And where these are light Eros finds a feere ; 
Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by 

glare, 
And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs 

might despair. 

x. 
Childe Harold had a mother — not forgot, 
Though parting from that mother he did 

shun; 
A sister whom he loved, but saw her not 
Before his weary pilgrimage begun : 
If friends he had, he bade adieu to none. 
Yet deem not thence his breast a breast of 

steel ; 



$0 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Ye, who have known what 'tis to dote upon 
A few dear objects, will in sadness feel 
Such partings break the heart they fondly hope 
to heal. 

XI. 

His house, his home, his heritage, his lands, 
The Laughing dames in whom he did delight, 
*Wh , blue eyes, fair locks, and snowy 

h mds, 
Might shake the saintship of an anchorite, 
And long had fed his youthful appetite; 
! I , . • >blets brimmed with every costly wine, 
And all that mote to luxury invite, 
Without a sigh he left to cross the brine, 
Arid traverse Paynim shores, and pass Earth's 
central hue. 

XII. 

The sails were fill'd, and fair the light winds 

blew, 
As glad to waft him from his native home; 
And fast the white rocks faded from his view, 
And soon were lost in circumambient foam; 
And then, it may be, of his wish to roam 
Repented he, but in his bosom slept 
The silent thought, nor from his lips did 

come 
One word of wail, whilst others sate and 

wept, 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 21 

And to the reckless gales unmanly moaning 
kept. 

XIII. 

But when the sun was sinking in the sea, 
He seized his harp, which he at times could 

string, 
And strike, albeit with untaught melody, 
When deem'd he no strange ear was listen- 
ing 
And now his fingers o'er it he did fling, 
And turned his farewell in the dim twilight, 
While flew the vessel on her snowy wing, 
And Meeting shores receded from his sight, 
Thus to the elements he pour'd his last "Good 
Night." 

Adieu, adieu ! my native shore 

Fades o'er the waters blue; 
The night-winds sigh, the breakers roar, 

And shrieks the wild sea-mew. 
Yon sun that sets upon the sea 

We follow in his flight; 
Farewell awhile to him and thee, 

My native Land— Good Night! 

A few short hours, and he will rise 

To give the morrow birth ; 
And I shall hail the main and skies, 



22 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 

But not my mother earth. 
Deserted is my own good hall, 

Its hearth is desolate ; 
Wild weeds are gathering on the wall, 

My dog howls at the gate. 

"Come hither, hither, my little page: 

Why dost thou weep and wail? 
Or dost thou dread the billow's rage, 

Or tremble at the gale? 
But dash the tear-drop from thine eye, 

Our ship is swift and strong; 
Our fleetest falcon scarce can fly 

More merrily along." 

"Let winds be shrill, let waves roll high, 

I fear not wave nor wind ; 
Yet marvel not, Sir Childe, that I 

Am sorrowful in mind; 
For I have from my father gone, 

A mother whom I love, 
And have no friend, save these alone, 

But thee — and One above. 

"My father bless'd me fervently, 
Yet did not much complain; 

But sorely will my mother sigh 
Till I come back again." — 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 23 

" Enough, enough, my little lad! 

Such tears become thine eye 
If I thy guileless bosom had, 

Mine own would not be dry. 

"Come hither, hither, my staunch yeoman, 

Why dost thou look so pale? 
Or dost thou dread a French foeman, 

Or shiver at the gale?" — 
"Deem'st thou I tremble for my life? 

Sir Childe, I'm not so weak; 
But thinking on an absent wife 

Will blanch a faithful cheek. 

4 'My spouse and boys dwell near thy hall, 

Along the bordering lake ; 
And when they on their father call, 

What answer shall she make?" — 
"Enough, enough, my yeoman good, 

Thy grief let none gainsay; 
But I, who am of lighter mood, 

Will laugh to flee away." 

For who would trust the seeming sighs 

Of wife or paramour? 
Fresh feeres will dry the bright blue eyes 

We late saw streaming o'er. 
For pleasures past I do not grieve, 



24 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Nor perils gathering near; 

My greatest grief is that I leave 

No thing that claims a tear. 

And now I'm in the world alone, 

Upon the wide, wide sea; 
But why should I for others groan, 

When none will sigh for me? 
Perchance my dog will whine in vain, 

Till fed by stranger hands; 
But long ere I come back again 

He'd tear me where he stands. 

With thee, my bark, I'll swiftly go 

Athwart the foaming brine ; 
Nor care what land thou bear'st me to. 

So not again to mine. 
Welcome, welcome, ye dark blue waves! 

And when you fail my sight, 
Welcome, ye deserts, and ye caves' 

My native land — Good Night! 

XIV. 

On, on the vessel flies, the land is gone, 
And winds are rude in Biscay's sleepless bay. 
Four days are sped, but with the fifth, anon, 
New shores described make every bosom gay ; 
And Cintra's mountain greets them on their 
way, 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 25 

And Tagus dashing onward to the deep, 
His fabled golden tribute bent to pay: 
And soon on board the Lusian pilots leap, 
And steer 'twixt fertile shores where yet few 
rustics reap. 

xv. 
Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to see 
What Heaven hath done for this delicious 

land! 
What fruits of fragrance blush on every 

tree! 
What goodly prospects o'er the hills expand! 
But man would mar them with an impious 

hand: 
And when the Almighty lifts His fiercest 

scourge 
'Gainst those who most transgress His high 

command, 
With treble vengeance will His hot shafts 

urge 
Gaul's locust host, and earth from fellest 

foemen purge. 

xvi. 

What beauties doth Lisboa first unfold! 
Her image floating on that noble tide, 
Which poets vainly pave with sands of gold, 
But now whereon a thousand keels did ride 



26 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Of mighty strength, since Albion was allied, 
And to the Lusians did her aid afford : 
A nation swoll'n with ignorance and pride, 
Who lick, yet loathe, the hand that waves 
the sword 
To save them from the wrath of Gaul's unspar- 
ing lord. 

XVII. 

But whoso entereth within this town, 
That, sheening far, celestial seems to be, 
Disconsolate will wander up and down, 
'Mid many things unsightly to strange e'e; 
For hut and palace show like filthily; 
The dingy denizens are rear'd in dirt; 
No personage of high or mean degree 
Doth care for cleanness of surtout or shirt, 
Though shent with Egypt's plague, unkempt, 
unwash'd, unhurt. 

XVIII. 

Poor, paltry slaves ! yet born 'midst noblest 

scenes — 
Why, Nature, waste thy wonders on such 

men? 
Lo! Cintra's glorious Eden intervenes 
In variegated maze of mount and glen. 
Ah me! what hand can pencil guide, or pen, 
To follow half on which the eye dilates 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 27 

Through views more dazzling unto mortal ken 
Than those whereof such things the bard 
relates, 
Who to the awe-struck world unlock'd Ely- 
sium's gates? 

XIX. 

The horrid crags, by toppling convent 

crown 'd, 
The cork-trees hoar that clothe the shaggy 

steep, 
The mountain moss by scorching skies im- 

brown'd, 
The sunken glen, whose sunless shrubs must 

weep, 
The tender azure of the unruffled deep, 
The orange tints that gild the greenest bough 
The torrents that from cliff to valley leap, 
The vine on high, the willow branch below, 
Mix'd in one mighty scene, with varied beauty 

glow. 

xx. 

Then slowly climb the many-winding way, 
And frequent turn to linger as you go, 
From loftier rocks new loveliness survey, 
And rest ye at "Our Lady's House of Woe;" * 

* The convent of "Our Lady of Punishment, " No8»a Senora 
de Pena, on the summit of the rock. Below, at some distance, 
is the Cork Convent, where St. Honorius dug his den, over 
which is his epitaph. From the hills, the sea adds to the beauty 
of the view. 



28 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Where frugal monks their little relics show, 
And sundry legends to the stranger tell : 
Here impious men have punish'd been; 

and lo, 
Deep in yon cave Honorius long did dwell, 
In hope to merit Heaven by making earth a 

Hell. 

XXI. 

And here and there, as up the crags you 
spring, 

Mark many rude-earv'd crosses near the 
path ; 

Yet deem not these devotion's offering — 

These are memorials frail of murderous 
wrath; 

For wheresoe'er the shrieking victim hath 

Pour'd forth his blood beneath the assassin's 
knife, 

Some hand erects a cross of mouldering lath ; 

And grove and glen with thousand such are 
rife 
Throughout this purple land, where law se- 
cures not life! * 



* It is a well-known fact, that in the year 1R09 the assassina- 
tions in the streets of Lisbon and its vicinity were not confined by 
the Portuguese to their countrymen, but ihat Englishmen were 
daily butchered; and so far from redress being obtained, we 
were requested not to interfere if we perceived any compatriot 
defending himself against his allies. I was once stopped in the 
way to the theatre at ei^ht o'clock in the evening, when the 
streets were not more empty than they generally are at that 
hour, opposite to an open shop, and in a carriage with a friend. 
Had we not fortunately been armed, I have not the least doubt 
that we should have "adorned a tale," instead of telling one. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 29 

XXII. 

On sloping mounds, or in the vale beneath. 
Are domes where whilom kings did make 

, repair: 
But now the wild flowers round them only 

breathe: 
Yet ruined splendor still is lingering there, 
And yonder towers the Prince's palace fair; 
There thou, too, Vathek ! England's wealth- 
iest son, 
Once form'd thy Paradise, as not aware 
When wanton Wealth her mightiest deeds 
hath done, 
Meek Peace voluptuous lures was ever wont 
to shun. 

XXIII. 

Here didst thou dwell, here schemes of 

pleasure plan, 
Beneath yon mountain's ever beauteous 

brow ; 
But now, as if a thing unblest by Man, 
Thy fairy dwelling is as lone as thou! 
Here giant weeds a passage scarce allow 
To halls deserted, portals gaping wide ; 
Fresh lessons to the thinking bosom, how 
Vain are the pleasances on earth supplied; 
Swept into wrecks anon by Time's ungentle 

tide. 



30 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

XXIV. 

Behold the hall where chiefs were late con- 
vened ! * 
Oh! dome displeasing unto British eye! 
With diadem hight foolscap, lo! a fiend, 
A little fiend that scoffs incessantly, 
There sits in parchment robe array'd, 

and by 
His side is hung a seal and sable scroll, 
Where blazon 'd glare names known to chiv- 
alry, 
And sundry signatures adorn the roll, 
Whereat the Urchin points and laughs with 
all his soul. 

xxv. 
Convention is the dwarfish demon styled 
That foil'd the knights in Marialva's dome: 
Of brains (if brains they had) he them be- 
guiled. 
And turn'd a nation's shallow joy to gloom. 
Here Folly dashed to earth the victor's 

plume, 
And Policy regained what Arms had lost: 
For chiefs like ours in vain may laurels 
bloom! 

* The Convention of Cintra was signed in the palace of the 
Ifarchese Marialva. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 31 

Woe to the conquering, not the conquer'd 
host, 
Since baffled Triumph droops on Lusitania's 
coast. 

XXVI. 

And ever since that martial synod met, 
Britannia sickens, Cintro, at thy name; 
And folks in office at the mention fret, 
And fain would blush, if blush they could, 

for shame. 
How will posterity the deed proclaim! 
Will not our own and fellow-nations sneer, 
To view these champions cheated of their 

fame, 
By foes in fight o'erthrown, yet victors here, 
Where Scorn her finger points through many 

a coming year? 

XXVII. 

So deem'd the Childe, as o'er the mountains 

he 
Did take his way in solitary guise : 
Sweet was the scene, yet soon he thought to 

flee, 
More restless than the swallow in the skies: 
Though here awhile he learned to moralize, 
For Meditation fix'd at times on him, 
And conscious Reason whisper'd to despise 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

His early youth misspent in maddest whim; 
But as he gazed on Truth, his aching eyes 
grew dim. 

XXVIII. 

To horse! to horse! he quits, forever quits 
A scene of peace, though soothing to his 

soul : 
Again he rouses from his moping tits. 
But seeks not now the harlot and the I 
< inward he flies, nor tix'd as yet the goal 
"Where he shall rest him on his pilgrimage ; 
And o'er him many changing scenes must 

roll. 
Ere toil his thirst for travel can assuage, 
Or he shall calm his breast, or learn experi- 

ence sage. 

XXIX. 

Yet Mafra shall one moment claim delay, 
Where dwelt oi yore the Lusians' luckless 

queen ; 
And church and court did mingle their array, 
And mass and revel were alternate seen; 
Lordlings and freres — ill-sorted fry, I ween! 
But here the Babylonian whore had built 
A dome, where flaunts she in such glorious 

sheen, 
That men forget the blood which she hath 

spilt, 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. S3 

And bow the knee to pomp that loves to gar- 
nish guilt. 

XXX. 

O'er vales that teem with fruits, romantic 

hills, 
(Oh that such hills upheld a free-born race!) 
Whereon to gaze the eye with joyance fills, 
Childe Harold wends through many a pk 

ant place. 
Though sli m it but a foolish cha 

And marvel men should quit their easy 

chair, 
The toilsome way, and long, long league to 

trace. 
Oh, there is - q the mountain 

And life, that bloated Base, can never hop 

share. 

.XI. 

More bleak to view the hills at length recede, 
And, less luxuriant, smoother vales extend; 
Immense horizon-bound plains succeed! 
Far as the eye discerns, withouten end, 
Spain's realms appear, whereon her shep- 
herds tend 
Flocks, whose rich fleece right well the trader 
knows — 

3 



34 CH1LDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Now must the pastor's arms his lambs de- 
fend : 

For Spain is compass'd by unyielding- foes, 
And all must shield their all, or share Subjec- 
tion's woes. 

XXXII. 

Where Lusitania and her Sister meet, 
Deem ye what bounds the rival realms di- 
vide? 
Or e'er the jealous queens of nations greet, 
Doth Tayo interpose his mighty tide? 
Or dark sierras rise in craggy pride? 
Or fence of art, like China's vasty wall? — 
Ne barrier wall, ne river deep and wide, 
Ne horrid crags, nor mountains dark land 
tall, 
Rise like the rocks that part Hispania's land 
from Gaul: 

XXXIII. 

But these between a silver streamlet glides, 
And scarce a name distinguisheth the brook, 
Though rival kingdoms press its verdant 

sides, 
Here leans the idle shepherd on his crook. 
And vacant on the rippling waves doth look, 
That peaceful still 'twist bitterest foemen 

flow : 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 35 

For proud each peasant as the noblest duke: 
Well doth the Spanish hind the difference 
know 
'Twixt him and Lusian slave, the lowest of the 
low. * 

XXXIV. 

But ere the mingling bounds have far been 

pass'd, 
Dark Guadiana rolls his power along 
In sullen billows, murmuring and vast, 
So noted ancient roundelays among, 
Whilom upon his banks did legions throng 
Of Moor and Knight, in mailed splendor 

drest ; 
Here ceased the swift their race, here sunk 

the strong; 
The Paynim turban and the Christian crest 
Mix'd on the bleeding stream, by floating hosts 

oppress'd. 

xxxv. 

Oh, lovely Spain! renown 'd, romantic land! 
Where is that standard which Pelagio bo*" s, 

* As I found the Portuguese, so I have characterized them. 
That they are since improved, at least in courage, is evident. 
The late exploits of Lord Wellington have effaced the follies of 
Cintra. He has indeed done wonders; he has perhaps changed 
the character of a nation, reconciled rival superstitions, and 
baffled an enemy who never retreated before his predecessors. 
—1812. 



36 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGAIMAGE. 

When Cava's* traitor-sire first call'd the band 
That dyed thy mountain-streams with Gothic 

gore? 
Where are those bloody banners which of 

yore 
Waved o'er thy sons, victorious to the gale, 
And drove at last the spoilers to their shore? 
Red gleam 'd the cross, and waned the cres- 
cent pale, 
While Afric's echoes thrill'd with Moorish 
matrons' wail. 

xxxvi. 
Teems not each ditty with the glorious tale? 
Ah! such, alas, the hero's amplest fate! 
When granite moulders and when records 

fail, 
A peasant's plaint prolongs his dubious date. 
Pride! bend thine eye from heaven to thine 

estate, 
See how the mighty shrink into a song! 
Can Volume, Pillar, Pile, preserve thee 

great? 
Or must thou trust Tradition's simple 

tongue, 
When Flattery sleeps with thee, and History 

does thee wrong? 

* Count Julian's daughter, the Helen of Spain. Pelagius pre- 
served his independence in the fastnesses of the Asturias. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 37 

XXXVII. 

Awake, ye sons of Spain ! awake ! advance-? 
Lo! Chivalry, your ancient goddess, cries, 
But wields not, as of old, her thirsty lance, 
Nor shakes her crimson plumage in the skies : 
Now on the smoke of blazing bolts she flies, 
And speaks in thunder through yon engine's 

roar ! 
In every peal she calls— "Awake! arise!" 
Say, is her voice more feeble than of yore, 
When her war-song was heard on Anda- 
lusia's shore? 

xxxvni. 
Hark! heard you not those hoofs of dreadful 

note? 
Sounds not the clang of conflict on the heath? 
Saw ye not whom the reeking sabre smote; 
Nor saved your brethren ere they sank be- 
neath 
Tyrants and tyrants' slaves?— the fires of 

death 
The bale-fires flash on high :— from rock to 

rock 
Each volley tells that thousands cease to 

breathe : 
Death rides upon the sulphury Siroc, 
Red Battle stamps his foot, and nations feel 
the shock. 



38 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

XXXIX. 

Lo! where the Giant on the mountain stands, 
His blood-red tresses deepening in the sun, 
With death-shot glowing in his fiery hands, 
And eye that scorcheth all it glares upon; 
Restless it rolls, now fix'd, and now anon 
Flashing afar, — and at his iron feet, 
Destruction cowers, to mark what deeds arc 

done ; 
For on this morn three potent nations meet, 
To shed before his shrine the blood he deems 

most sweet. 

XL. 

By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see 
(For one who hath no friend, no brother 

there) 
Their rival scarfs of mix'd embroidery. 
Their various arms that glitter in the air! 
What gallant war-hounds rouse them from 

their lair, 
And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the 

prey! 
All join the chase, but few the triumph share : 
The Grave shall bear the chiefest prize away, 
And Havoc scarce for joy can number their 

array. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 39 

XLI. 

Three hosts combine tc offer sacrifice; 
Three tongues prefer strange orisons on 

high; 
Three gaudy standards flout the pale blue 

skies: 
The shouts are France, Spain, Albion, Vic- 
tory! 
The foe, the victim, and the fond ally 
That fights for all, but ever fights in vain, 
Are met — as if at home they could not die — 
To feed the crow on Talavera's plain, 
And fertilize the field that each pretends to 
gain. 

XI.II. 

There shall they rot — Ambition's honor'd 

fools! 
Yes, Honor decks the turf that wraps their 

clay! 
Vain Sophistry! in these behold the tools, 
The broken tools, that tyrants cast away 
By myriads, when they dare to pave their 

way 
With human hearts — to what? — a dream 

alone. 
Can despots compass aught that hails their 

sway? 



40 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Or call with truth one span of earth their 
own, 
Save that wherein at last they crumble bone 
by bone? 

XLIII. 

O Albuera, glorious field of grief! 

As o'er thy plain the Pilgrim prick 'd his 

steed, 
Who could foresee thee, in a space so brief, 
A scene where mingling foes should boast 

and bleed? 
Peace to the perish 'd! may the warrior's 

meed 
And tears of triumph their reward prolong' 
Till others fall where other chieftains lead. 
Thy name shall circle round the gaping 

throng. 
And shine in worthless lays, the theme of 

transient song. 

XLIV. 

Enough of Battle's minions! let them play 
Their game of lives, and barter breath for 

fame: 
Fame that will scarce reanimate their clay, 
Though thousands fall to deck some single 

name. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAjGE. 41 

In sooth, 'twere sad to thwart their noble 

aim 
Who strike, blest hirelings! for their country's 

good, 
And die, that living might have proved her 

shame ; 
Perish'd, perchance, in some domestic fend, 
Or in a narrower sphere wild Rapine's path 

pursued. 

xlv. 

Full swiftly Harold wends his lonely way 
Where proud Sevilla triumphs unsubdued 
Yet is she free — the spoiler's wish 'd- for 

prey ! 
Soon, soon shall Conquest's fiery foot in- 
trude, 
Blackening her lovely domes with traces 

rude. 
Inevitable hour! 'Gainst fate to strive 
Where Desolation plants her famish 'd brood 
Is vain, or Ilion, Tyre, might yet survive. 
And Virtue vanquish all, and Murder cease to 
thrive. 

XLVI. 

But all unconscious of the coming doom. 
The feast, the song, the revel here abounds; 



42 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Strange modes of merriment the hours con- 
sume, 

Nor bleed these patriots with their country's 
wounds ; 

Nor here War's clarion, but Love's rebeck 
sounds; 

Here Folly still his votaries enthralls, 

And young-eyed Lewdness walks her mid- 
night rounds: 

Girt with the silent crimes of capitals, 
Still to the last kind Vice clings to the totter- 
ing walls. 

XLVII. 

Not so the rustic: with his trembling mate 
He lurks, nor casts his heavy eye afar, 
Lest he should view his vineyard desolate, 
Blasted below the dun hot breath of war. 
No more beneath soft Eve's consenting star 
Fandango twirls his jocund castanet: 
Ah, monarchs! could ye taste the mirth ye 

mar, 
Not in the toils of Glory would ye fret ; 
The hoarse dull drum would sleep, and Man be 

happy yet. 

XLVIII. 

How carols now the lusty muleteer? 
Of love, romance, devotion is his lay, 



.CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 43 

As whilome he was wont the leagues to 

cheer, 
His quick bells wildly jingling on the way? 
No! as he speeds, he chants "Viva el Rey!"* 
And check his song to execrate Godoy, 
The royal wittol Charles, and curse the day 
When first Spain's queen beheld the black- 
eyed boy, 
And gore-faced Treason sprung from her 
adulterate joy. 

XLIX. 

On yon long level plain, at distance crown'd 
With crags, whereon those Moorish turrets 

rest, 
Wide scatter'd hoof-marks dint the wounded 

ground ; 
And, scathed by fire, the greensward's dark- 

en'd vest 
Tells that the foe was Andalusia's guest: 
Here was the camp, the watch-flame, and the 

host, 



* "Viva el Rcy Fernando!" Long live King Ferdinand ! is the 
chorus of most of the Spanish patriotic songs. They are chiefly 
in dispraise of the old King Charles, the Queen, and the Prince 
of Peace. I have heard many of them: some of the airs are 
beautiful. Don Manuel Godoy, the Principe de la Paz, of an 
ancient but decayed familv, was born at Badajoz, on the fron- 
tiers of Portugal, and was originally in the ranks of the Spanish 
guards: till his person attracted the queen's eyes, and raised 
him to the dukedom of Alcudia, etc., etc. It is to this man that 
the Spaniards universally impute the ruin of their country. 



44 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Here the brave peasant storm 'd the dragon's 

nest; 
Still does he mark it with triumphant boast, 
And points to yonder cliffs, which oft were 
won and lost. 

l. 
And whomsoe'er along the path you meet 
Bears in his cap the badge of crimson hue,* 
Which tells you whom to shun and whom to 

greet: 
Woe to the man that walks in public view 
Without of loyalty this token true: 
Sharp is the knife, and sudden is the stroke; 
And sorely would the Gallic foeman rue, 
If subtle poinards, wrapt beneath the cloke, 
Could blunt the sabre's edge, or clear the 
cannon's smoke. 

LI. 

At every turn Morena's dusky height 
Sustains aloft the battery's iron load; 
And, far as mortal eye can compass sight, 
The mountain howitzer, the broken road, 
The bristling palisade, the fosse o'erflow'd, 
The station'd bands, the never-vacant watch, 
The magazine in rocky durance stow'd, 

* The red cockade, with "Fernando VII." in the center. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 45 

The holster'd steed beneath the shed of 
thatch, 
The ball-piled pyramid, the ever-blazing 
match, 

LII. 

Portend the deeds to come: — but he whose 
nod 

Has tumbled feebler despots from their sway, 

A moment pauseth ere he lifts the rod; 

A little moment deigneth to delay: 

Soon will his legions sweep through these 
their way: 

The West must own the Scourger of the 
world. 

Ah, Spain ! how sad will be thy reckoning- 
day, 

When soars Gaul's Vulture, with his wings 
unfurled. 
And thou shalt view thy sons in crowds to 
Hades hurled. 

LIU. 

And must they fall — the young, the proud, 

the brave — 
To swell one bloated chief's unwholesome 

reign? 
No step between submission and a grave? 
The rise of rapine and the fall of Spain? 



46 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

And doth the power that man adores ordain 
Their doom, nor heed the suppliant's appeal? 
Is all that desperate Valor acts in vain? 
And Counsel sage, and patriotic Zeal, 
The Veteran's skill. Youth's fire and Man- 
hood's heart of steel? 

LIV. 

Is it for this the Spanish maid, aroused, 
Hangs on the willow her unstrung guitar, 
And, all unsex'd, the anlace hath espoused, 
Sung the loud song, and dared the deed of 

war? 
And she, whom once the semblance of a scar 
Appall'd, an owlet's larum chill 'd with dread, 
Now views the column-scattering bayonet 

jar, 
The falchion flash, and o'er the yet warm 

dead 
Stalks with Minerva's step where Mars might 

quake to tread. 

LV. 

Ye who shall marvel when you hear her tale, 
Oh! had you known her in her softer hour, 
Mark'd her black eye that mocks her coal- 
black veil, 
Heard her light, lively tones in lady's bower, 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 47 

Seen her long- locks that foil the painter's 

power, 

Her fairy form, with more than female grace, 

Scarce would you deem that Saragoza's tower 

Beheld her smile in Danger's Gorgon face, 

Thin the closed ranks, and lead in Glory's 

fearful chase. 

LVI. 

Her lover sinks — she sheds no ill-tim'd tear; 
Her chief is slain — she fills his fatal post; 
Her fellows flee — she checks their base 

career; 
The foe retires — she heads the sallying host: 
Who can appease like her a lover's ghost? 
Who can avenge so well a leader's fall? 
What maid retrieve when man's flush'd hope 

is lost? 
Who hang so fiercely on the flying Gaul, 
Foil'd by a woman's hand, before a battered 

wall?* 

LVI I. 

Yet are Spain's maids no race of Amazons, 
But form'd for all the witching arts of love: 
Though thus in arms they emulate her sons, 

* Such were the exploits of the Maid of Saragoza, who by her 
▼alor elevated herself to the highest rank of heroines. When the 
author was at Seville, she walked daily on the Prado, decorated 
with medals and orders, by command of the Junta. 



48 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

And in the horrid phalanx dare to move, 
Tis but the tender fierceness of the dove, 
Pecking the hand that hovers o'er her mate: 
In softness as in firmness far above 
Remoter females, famed for sickening - prate; 
Her mind is nobler sure, her charms perchance 
as great. 

LVIII. 

The seal Love's dimpling finger hath im- 
pressed 
Denotes how soft that chin which bears his 

touch :* 
Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their 

nest, 
Bid man be valiant ere he merit such: 
Her glance, how wildly beautiful! how much 
Hath Phcebus woo'd in vain to spoil her 

cheek, 
Which glows yet smoother from his amorous 

clutch ! 
Who round the North for paler dames would 

seek? 
How poor their forms appear! how languid, 

wan, and weak! 

*"Sigilla in mentn impressa Amoris digitulo 
Wstigo demonstrant mollitudinera."— Aul. Gel. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 49 

L1X. 

Match me, ye climes! which poets love to 

laud ; 
Match me, ye harems of the land! where 

now 
I strike my strain, far distant, to applaud 
Beauties that even a cynic must avow ! 
Match me those houris, whom ye scarce allow 
To taste the gale lest Love should ride the 

wind, 
With Spain's dark-glancing daughters — 

deign to know, 
There your wise Prophet's paradise we find, 
His black-eyed maids of Heaven, angelically 

kind. 

LX. 

Oh thou, Parnassus! whom I now survey, 
Not in the frenzy of a dreamer's eye, 
Not in the fabled landscape of a lay, 
But soaring snow- clad through thy native 

sky. 
In the wild pomp of mountain majesty! 
What marvel if I thus essay to sing? 
The humblest of thy pilgrims passing by 
Would gladly woo thine echoes with his 

string, 
Though from thy heights no more one muse 

will wave her wimr. 



50 CHILDK HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

I. XI. 

Oft have I dream'd of thee! whose glorious 

name 
Who knows not, knows not man's divinest 

lore: 
And now I view thee, 'tis, alas, with shame 
That I in feeblest accents must adore. 
When I recount thy worshippers of yore 
I tremble, and can only bend the knee; 
Nor raise my voice, nor vainly dare to soar, 
But gaze beneath thy cloudy canopy 
In silent joy to think at last I look on thee' 

LXII. 

Happier in this than mightiest bards have 

been, 
Whose fate to distant homes confined their 

lot, 
Shall I unmoved behold the hallow'd scene, 
Which others rave of, though they know it 

not? 
Though here no more Apollo haunts his 

rot, 
And thou, the Muses' seat, art now their 

grave, 
Some gentle spirit till pervades the spot, 
Sighs in the gale, keeps silence in the cave, 
And glides with glassy foot o'er yon melodious 

wave. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 51 

LXIII. 

Of thee hereafter. — Even amidst my strain 
I turn'd aside to pay my homage here; 
Forgot che land, the sons, the maids of Spain; 
Her fate, to every free born bosom dear ; 
And hail'd thee, not perchance without a 

tear. 
Now to my theme — but from thy holy haunt 
Let me some remnant, some memorial bear; 
Yield me one leaf of Daphne's deathless 

plant, 
Nor let thy votary's hope be deem'd an idle 

vaunt. 

LXIV. 

But ne'er didst thou, fair Mount, when 

Greece was young. 
See round thy giant base a brighter choir; 
Nor e'er did Delphi, when her priestess snug 
The Pythian hymn with more than mortal 

fire, 
Behold a train more fitting to inspire 
The song of love than Andalusia's maids, 
Nurst in the glowing lap of soft desire: 
Ah! that to these were given such peaceful 

shades 
As Greece can still bestow, though Glory fly 

her glades. 



52 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

LXV. 

Fair is proud Seville; let her country boast 
Her strength, her wealth, her site of ancient 

days, 
But Cadiz, rising on the distant coast, 
Calls forth a sweeter, though ignoble praise. 
Ah, Vice! how soft are thy voluptuous ways! 
While boyish blood is mantling, who can 

'scape 
The fascination of thy magic gaze? 
A Cherub-hydra round us dost thou gape, 
And mould to every taste thy dear delusive 

shape. 

LXV I. 

When Paphos fell by time— accursed Time* 
The Queen who conquers all must yield to 

thee — 
The Pleasures fled, but sought as warm a 

clime; 
And Venus, constant to her native sea, 
To nought else constant, hither deign'd to 

flee, 
And fix'd her shrine within these walls of 

white; 
Though not to one dome circumscribeth she 
Her worship, but, devoted to her rite, 
A thousand altars rise, forever blazing bright. 



LDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 53 

LXVII. 

From morn till night, from night till startled 

Morn 
Peeps blushing on the revel's laughing crew, 
The song is heard, the rosy garland worn ; 
Devices quaint, and frolics ever new, 
Tread on each other's kibes. A long adieu 
He bids to sober joy that here sojourns: 
Nought interrupts the riot, though in lieu 
Of true devotion monkish incense burns, 
And love and prayer unite, or rule the hour by 

turns. 

LXVIII. 

The Sabbath comes, a day of blessed rest; 
What hallows it upon this Christian shore? 
Lo! it is sacred to a solemn feast: 
Hark! heard you not the forest monarch's 

roar? 
Crashing the lance, he snuffs the spouting 

gore 
Of man and steed, o'erthrown beneath his 

horn: 
The throng'd arena shakes with shouts for 

more; 
Yells the mad crowd o'er entrails freshly 

torn, 
Nor shrinks the female eye, nor even affects to 

mourn. 



54 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

LXIX. 

The seventh day this: the jubilee of man. 
London! right well thou know'st the day of 

prayer: 
Then thy spruce citizen, wash'd artisan, 
And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air: 
Thy coach of hackney, whiskey, one-horse 

chair, 
And humblest gig, through sundry suburbs 

whirl ; 
To Hamstead, Brentford, Harrow, make 

repair; 
Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl, 
Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian 

churl. 

LXX. 

Some o'er thy Thamis row the ribbon'd fair, 

Others along the safer turnpike fly; 

Some Richmond Hill ascend, some scud to 

Ware, 
And many to the steep of Highgate hie. 
Ask ye, Boeotian shades, the reason why? 
'Tis to the worship of the solemn Horn, 
Grasp'd in the holy hand of Mystery, 
In whose dread name both men and maids 

are sworn, 
And consecrate the oath with draught, and 

dance till morn. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 55 

LXXI. 

All have their fooleries; not alike are thine, 
Fair Cadiz, rising o'er the dark-blue sea! 
Soon as the matin bell proclaimeth nine, 
Thy saint adorers count the rosary: 
Much is the Virgin teased to shrive them free 
(Well do I ween the only virgin there) 
From crimes as numerous as her beadsmen 

be; 
Then to the crowded circus forth they fare: 
Young, old, high, low, at once the same diver- 
sion share. 

LXXII. 

The lists are ope'd, the spacious area clear 'd, 
Thousands on thousands piled are seated 

round; 
Long ere the first loud trumpet's note is 

heard, 
Ne vacant space for lated wight is found: 
Here dons, grandees, but chiefly dames 

abound, 
Skill'd in the ogle of a roguish eye, 
Yet ever well inclined to heal the wound; 
None through their cold disdain are doom'd 

to die, 
As moon-struck bards complain, by Love's sad 

archery. 



56 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

LXXIII. 

Hush'd is the din of tongues — on gallant 
steeds, 

With milk-white crest, gold spur, and light- 
poised lance, 

Four cavaliers prepare for venturous deeds, 

And lowly bending to the lists advance; 

Rich are their scarfs, their chargers featly 
prance: 

If in the dangerous game they shine to-day, 

The crowd's loud shout, and ladies' i< 
glance, 

Best prize of better acts, they bear away, 
And all that kings or chiefs e'er gain their 
toils repay. 

IX XIV. 

In costly sheen and gaudy cloak array'd, 
But all afoot, the light-limb'd Matadore 
Stands in the center, eager to invade 
The lord of lowing herds; but not before 
The ground, with cautious tread, is traversed 

o'er, 
Lest aught unseen should lurk to thwart his 

speed, 
His arms a dart, he fights aloof, nor more 
Can man achieve without the friendly steed — 
Alas! too oft condemn'd for him to bear and 

bleed. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 07 

LXXV. 

Thrice sounds the clarion; lo! the signal 

falls, 
The den expands, and Expectation mute 
Gapes round the silent circle's peopled walls. 
Bounds with one lashing spring the mighty 

brute, 
And wildly staring, spurns, with sounding 

foot, 
The sand, nor blindly rushes on his foe : 
Here, there, he points his threatening front, 

to suit 
His first attack, wide waving to and fro 
His angry tail; red rolls his eyes' dilated glow. 

LXXVI. 

Sudden he stops; his eye is fix'd: away, 
Away, thou heedless boy! prepare the spear; 
Now is thy time to perish, or display 
The skill that yet may check his mad career. 
With well-timed croupe the nimble coursers 

veer; 
On foams the bull, but not unscathed he 

goes; 
Streams from his flank the crimson torrent 

clear: 
He flies, he wheels, distracted with his 

throes: 



58 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Dart follows dart; lance, lance; loud bellow- 
ings speak his woes. 

LXXVII. 

Again he conies; nor dart nor lance avail, 
Nor the wild plunging of the tortured horse; 
Though man and man's avenging arms assail, 
Vain are his weapons, vainer is his force. 
One gallant steed is stretch'd a mangled 

corse ; 
Another, hideous sight! unseam'd appears, 
His gory chest unveils life's panting source; 
Though death-struck, still his feeble frame 

he rears; 
Staggering, but stemming all, his lord 

unharmed he bears. 

LXXVIII. 

Foil'd, bleeding, breathless, furious to the 

last, 
Full in the center stands the bull at bay, 
'Mid wounds, and clinging darts, and lances 

brast, , 

And foes disabled in the brutal fray: 
And now the Matadores around him play, 
Shake the red cloak, and poise the ready 

brand : 
Once more through all he bursts his thunder- 
ing way — 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 5£ 

Vain rage! the mantle quits the conynge 
hand, 
Wraps his fierce eye — 'tis past — he sinks upon 
the sand. 

LXXIX. 

Where his vast neck just mingles with the 

spine, 
Sheathed in his form the deadly weapon lies. 
He stops — he starts — disdaining to decline: 
Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries, 
Without a groan, without a struggle dies. 
The decorated car appears: on high 
The corse is piled — sweet sight for vulgar 

eyes: 
Four steeds that spurn the rein, as swift as 
shy, 
Hurl the dark Lull along, scarce seen in dash- 
ing by. 

LXXX. 

Such the ungentle sport that oft invites 
The Spanish maid, and cheers the Spanish 

swain : 
Nurtured in blood betimes, his heart delights 
In vengeance, gloating on another's pain. 
What private feuds the troubled village stain ! 
Though now one phalanx'd host should meet 

the foe. 



60 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Enough, alas, in humble homes remain, 
To meditate 'gainst friends the secret blow, 
For some slight cause of wrath, whence life's 
warm stream must flow. 

LXXXI. 

But Jealousy has fled: his bars, his bolts, 
His withered sentinel, Duenna sage! 
And all whereat the generous soul revolts, 
Which the stern dotard deem'd he could en- 
cage, 
Have pass'd to darkness with the vanish'd 

age. 
Who late so free as Spanish girls were seen 
(Ere War uprose in his volcanic rage), 
With braided tresses bounding o'er the 
green, 
While on the gay dance shone Night's lover- 
loving Queen. 

LXXXII. 

Oh! many a time and oft had Harold loved, 
Or dream'd he loved, since rapture is a 

dream ; 
But now his wayward bosom was unmoved, 
For not yet had he drunk of Lethe's stream : 
And lately had he learn'd with truth to deem 
Love has no gift so grateful as his wings: 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 61 

How fair, how young, how soft soe'er he 

seem, 
Full from the fount of Joy's delicious springs 
Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling 

venom flings. 

LXXXI1I. 

Yet to the beauteous form he was not blind, 
Though now it moved him as it moves the 

wise ; 
Not that Philosophy on such a mind 
E'er deign'd to bend her chastely-awful 

eyes; 
But Passion raves itself to rest, or flies; 
And Vice, that digs her own voluptuous 

tomb, 
Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise: 
Pleasure's pall'd victim! life-abhorring 

gloom 
Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain's unresting 

doom. 

LXXXIV. 

Still he beheld, nor mingled with the 

throng; 
But view'd them not with misanthropic hate; 
Fain would he now have join'd the dance, 

the song; 



62 CH1LDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

But who may smile that sinks beneath his 

fate? 
Naught that he saw his sadness could abate: 
Yet once he struggled gainst the demon's 

sway, 
And as in Beauty's bower he pensive sate, 
Pour'd forth this unpremeditated lay, 
To charms as fair as those that soothed his 

happier day. 

TO INEZ. 

Nay, smile not at my sullen brow; 

Alas! I cannot smile again: 
Yet Heaven avert that ever thou 

Shouldst weep, and haply weep in vain. 

And dost thou ask what secret woe 
I bear, corroding joy and youth? 

And wilt thou vainly seek to know 
A pang even thou must fail to soothe? 

It is not love, it is not hate, 

Nor low Ambition's honors lost 

That bids me loathe my present state 
And fly from all I prized the most: 

It is that weariness which springs 
From all I meet or hear or see : 

To me no pleasure Beauty brings; 

Thine eyes have scarce a charm for me. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 63 

It is that settled, ceaseless gloom 
The fabled Hebrew wanderer bore, 

That will not look beyond the tomb, 
But cannot hope for rest before. 

What Exile from himself can flee? 

To zones, though more and more remote, 
Still, still pursues, where'er I be, 

The blight of life— the demon Thought. 

Yet others rapt in pleasure seem, 
And taste of all that I forsake : 

Oh ! may they still of transport dream, 
And ne'er, at least like me, awake! 

Through many a clime 'tis mine to go, 
With many a retrospection curst ; 

And all my solace is to know, 

Whate'er betides, I've known the worst. 

What is that worst? Nay, do not ask — 
In pity from the search forbear: 

Smile on — nor venture to unmask 

Man's heart, and view the Hell that's 
there. 

LXXXV. 

Adieu, fair Cadiz! yea, a long adieu! 
Who may forget how well thy walls have 
stood? 



64 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

When all were changing, thou alone wert 

true, 
First to be free, and last to be subdued. 
And if amidst a scene, a shock so rude, 
Some native blood was seen thy streets to 

dye, 
A traitor only fell beneath the feud: * 
Here all were noble, save nobility; 
None hugg'd a conqueror's chain save fallen 

Chivalry! 

LXXXVI. 

Such be the sons of Spain, and strange her 

fate! 
They fight for freedom who were never free; 
A'kingless people for a nerveless state, 
Her vassals combat when their chieftains 

flee, 
True to the veriest slaves of Treachery; 
Fond of a land which gave them naught 

but life, 
Pride points the path that leads to liberty; 
Back to the struggle, baffled in the strife, 
War, war is still the cry, t; War even to the 

knife!" f 

* Alluding to the conduct and death of Solano, the governor 
of Cadiz, in May, 1809. 

t Palafox's answer to the French general at the siege of 
Sarf (?oza. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 



67 



xci. 
And thou, my friend! since unavailing woe 
Bursts from my heart, and mingles with the 

strain — 
Had the sword laid thee with the mighty low, 
Pride might forbid e'en Friendship to com- 
plain: 
But thus unlaurel'd to descend in vain, 
By all forgotten, save the lonely breast, 
And mix unbleeding with the boasted slain, 
While glory crowns so many a meaner crest! 
What hadst thou done, to sink so peacefullv to 
rest? 

XCII. 

Oh, known the earliest, and esteem'd the 

most ! 
Dear to a heart where nought was left so 

dear! 
Though to my hopeless days forever lost, 
In dreams deny me not to see thee here! 
And Morn in secret shall renew the tear 
Of Consciousness awaking to her woes, 
And Fancy hover o'er thy bloodless bier, 
Till my frail frame return to whence it rose, 
And mourned and mourner lie united in repose. 



68 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

xcm. 
Here is one fytte of Harold's pilgrimage. 
Ye who of him may further seek to know, 
Shall find some tidings in a future page, 
If he that rhymeth now may scribble mo'e. 
Is this too much? Stern Critic, say not so: 
Patience! and ye shall hear what he beheld 
In other lands, where he was doom'd to go: 
Lands that contain the monuments of Eld, 
Ere Greece and Grecian arts by barbarous 
hands were quell' d. 



CANTO THE SECOND. 

i. 
Come, blue-eyed maid of heaven! — but thou, 

alas. 
Didst never yet one mortal song- inspire 
Goddess of Wisdom! here thy temple was, 
And is, despite of war and wasting fire,* 
And years, that bade thy worship to expire : 
But worse than steel, and flame, and a^es 

slow, 
Is the drear sceptre and dominion dire 
Of men who never felt the sacred glow 
That thoughts of thee and thine on polish'd 

breasts bestow. 

ii. 
Ancient of days! august Athena! where. 
Where are thy men of might, thy grand in 

soul? 
Gone — glimmering- through the dream of 

things that were: 
First in the race that led to Glory's goal, 

* Part of the Acropolis was destroyed by the explosion of a 
magazine during the Venetian siege. 



70 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

They won, and passed away — is this the 
whole? 

A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour! 

The warrior's weapon and the sophist's 
stole 

Are sought in vain, and o'er each moulder- 
ing tower. 
Dim with the mist of years, grey flits the 
shade of power. 

in. 
Son of the morning, rise ! approach you here ! 
Come — but molest not yon defenceless urn! 
Look on this spot — a nation's sepulchre! 
Abode of gods, whose shrines no longer 

burn. 
Even gods must yield — religions take their 

turn: 
'Twas Jove's — it's Mahomet's; and other 

creeds 
Will rise with other years, till man shall 

learn 
Vainly his incense soars, his victim bleeds: 
Poor child of Doubt and Death, whose hope is 

built on reeds. 

IV. 

Bound to the earth, he lifts his eyes to 
heaven — 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 71 

Is't not enough, unhappy thing, to know 
Thou art? Is this a boon so kindly given, 
That being, thou wouldst be again, and go, 
Thou know' st not, reck'st not to what 

region, so 
On earth no more, but mingled with the skies! 
Still wilt thou dream on future joy and woe? 
Regard and weigh yon dust before it flies: 
That little urn saith more than thousand hom- 
ilies. 

v. 
Or burst thevanish'd Hero's lofty mound; 
Far on the solitary shore he sleeps; * 
He fell, and falling nations mourn'd around; 
But now not one of saddening thousands 

weeps, 
Nor warlike worshipper his vigil keeps 
Where demi-godsappear'd, as records tell. 
Remove yon scull from out the scatter'd 

heaps: 
Is that a temple where a God may dwell? 
Why, even the worm at last disdains her 

shatter'd cell! 

* It was not always the custom of the Greeks to burn their 
dead; the greater Ajax, in particular, was interred entire. 
Almost all the chiefs became gods after their decease; and he 
was indeed neglected who had not annual games near his tomb, 
or festivals in honor of his memory by his countrymen, as 
Achilles, Brasidas, etc., and at last even Antinous, whose death 
was as heroic as his life was infamous. 



72 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

VI. 

Look on its broken arch, its ruin'd wall, 
Its chambers desolate, and portals foul: 
Yes, this was once Ambition's airy hall, 
The dome of Thought, the palace of the 

Soul. 
Behold through each lack-lustre, eyeless hole, 
The gay recess of Wisdom and of Wit, 
And Passion's host, that never brook'd con- 
trol : 
Can all saint, sage, or sophist ever writ, 
People this lonely tower, this tenement refit? 

VII. 

Well didst thou speak, Athena's wisest son! 
"All that we know is, nothing can be known." 
Why should we shrink from what we cannot 

shun' 
Each hath its pang, but feeble sufferers 

groan 
With brain-born dreams of evil all their own. 
Pursue what Chance or Fact proclaimeth 

best; 
Peace waits us on the shores of Acheron : 
There no forced banquet claims the sated 

guest, 
But Silence spreads the couch of ever-welcome 

rest. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 73 

VIII. 

Yet if, as holiest men have deem'd, there be 
A land of souls beyond that sable shore, 
To shame the doctrine of the Sadducee 
And sophists, madly vain of dubious lore ; 
How sweet it were in concert to adore 
With those who made our mortal labors 

light! 
To hear each voice we fear'd to hear no 

more ! 
Behold each mighty shade reveal'd to sight. 
The Bactrian, Samian sage, and all who taught 

the right! 

IX. 

There, thou! — whose love and life together 

fled, 
Have left me here to love and live in vain — 
Twined with my heart, and can I deem thee 

dead, 
When busy memory flashes on my brain? 
Well — I will dream that we may meet again, 
And woo the vision to my vacant breast: 
If aught of young Remembrance then re- 
main, 
Be as it may Futurity's behest, 
For me 'twere bliss enough to know thy 
spirit blest! 



74 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

x. 

Here let me sit upon this massy stone, 
The marble column's yet unshaken base! 
Here, son of Saturn, was thy favorite 

throne!* 
Mightiest of many such! Hence let me trace 
The latent grandeur of thy dwelling-place. 
It may not be; nor even can Fancy's eye 
Restore what time hath labor'd to deface. 
Yet these proud pillars claim no passing sigh ; 
Unmoved the Moslem sits, the light Greek 

carols by. 

XI. 

But who, of all the plunderers of yon fane 
On high, where Pallas linger'd, loth to flee, 
The latest relic of her ancient reign — 
The last, the worst, dull spoiler, who was 

he? 
Blush, Caledonia! such thy son could be! 
England! I joy no child he was of thine: 
Thy free-born men should spare what once 

was free ; 
Yet they could violate each saddening 

shrine, 

* The temple of Jupiter Olympius, of which sixteen columns, 
entirely of marble, yet survive: originally there were one hun- 
dred and fifty. These columns, however, are by many sup- 
posed to have belonged to the Pantheon. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 75 

And bear these altars o'er the long reluctant 
brine. 

XII. 

But most the modern Pict's ignoble boast, 
To rive what Goth, and Turk, and Time 

hath spared: 
Cold as the crags upon his native coast, 
His mind as barren and his heart as hard, 
Is he whose head conceived, whose hand 

prepared, 
Aught to displace Athena's poor remains: 
Her sons too weak the sacred shrine to 

guard, 
Yet felt some portion of their mother's pains, 
And never knew, till then, the weight of Des- 
pot's chains. 

XIII. 

What! shall it e'er be said by British tongue 
Albion was happy in Athena's tears? 
Though in thy name the slaves her bosom 

wrung, 
Tell not the deed to blushing Europe's ears; 
The ocean queen, the free Britannia, bears 
The last poor plunder from a bleeding land: 
Yes, she, whose generous aid her name en- 
dears, 



76 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Tore down those remnants with a harpy's 
hand, 
Which envious Eld forbore, and Tyrants left 
to stand. 

XIV. 

Where was thine £2gis, Pallas, that appall 'd 
Stern Alaric and Havoc on their way?* 
Where Peleus' son? whom Hell in vain en- 

thrall'd, 
His shade from Hades upon that dread day 
Bursting to light in terrible array! 
What! could not Pluto spare the chief once 

more, 
To scarce a second robber from his prey? 
Idly lie wander'd on the Stygian shore, 
Nor now preserved the walls he loved to 

shield before. 

xv. 
Cold is the heart, fair Greece, that looks on 

thee, 
Nor feels as lovers o'er the dust they loved; 
Dull is the eye that will not weep to see 
Thy walls defaced, thy mouldering shrines 

removed 
Bv British hands, which it had best behoved 



* According to Zosimus, Minerva and Achilles frightened Ala- 
ric from the Acropolis; but others relate that the Gothic king 
was nearly as mischievous as the Scottish peer.— See Chandler. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 77 

To guard those relics ne'er to be restored. 
Curst be the hour when from their isle they 

roved, 
And once again thy hapless bosom gored, 
And snatch'd thy shrinking gods to northern 

climes abhorr'd! 

XVI. 

But where is Harold? shall I then forget 

To urge the gloomy wanderer o'er the wave? 

Little reck'd he of all that men regret; 

No loved one now in feign 'd lament could 
rave ; 

No friend the parting hand extended gave, 

Ere the cold stranger pass'd to other climes. 

Hard is his heart whom charms may not en- 
slave ; 

But Harold felt not as in other times, 
And left without a sigh the land of war and 
crimes. 

XVII. 

He that has sail'd upon the dark blue sea, 
Has view'd at times, I ween, a full fair sight; 
When the fresh breeze is fair as breeze 

may be, 
The white sails set, the gallant frigate tight, 
Masts, spires, and strand retiring to the 

right, 



78 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

The glorious main expanding o'er the bow, 
The convoy spread like wild swans in their 

flight, 
The dullest sailor wearing bravely now, 
So gaily curl the waves before each dashing 
prow. 

xvin. 
And oh, the little warlike world within! 
The well-reeved guns, the netted canopy,* 
The hoarse command, the busy humming 

din, 
When, at a word, the tops are mann'd on 

high: 
Hark to the Boatswain's call the cheering 

cry, 
While through the seaman's hand the tackle 

glides; 
Or schoolboy Midshipman that, standing by, 
Strains his shrill pipe, as good or ill betides, 
And well the docile crew that skillful urchin 

guides. 

XIX. 

White is the glassy deck, without a stain, 
Where on the watch the staid Lieutenant 
walks: 

* To prevent blocks or splinters from falling on deck during 
action. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 79 

Look on that part which sacred doth remain 
For the lone Chieftain, who majestic stalks, 
Silent and fear'd by all: not oft he talks 
With aught beneath him, if he would preserve 
That strict restraint, which broken, ever 

baulks 
Conquest and Fame: but Britons rarely 

swerve 
From law, however stern, which tends their 

strength to nerve. 

xx. 

Blow, swiftly blow, thou keel-compelling 

gale, 
Till the broad sun withdraws his lessening 

ray; 
Then must the pennant-bearer slacken sail, 
That lagging barks may make their lazy way. 
Ah! grievance sore, and listless dull delay, 
To waste on sluggish hulks the sweetest 

breeze! 
What leagues are lost before the dawn of 

day, 
Thus loitering pensive on the willing seas, 
The flapping sail haul'd down to halt for logs 

like these! 



80 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

XXI. 

The moon is up; by Heaven, a lovely eve! 
Long streams of light o'er dancing waves ex- 
pand; 
Now lads on shore may sigh, and maids be- 
lieve : 
Such be our fate when we return to land ! 
Meantime some rude Arion's restless hand 
Wakes the brisk harmony that sailors love: 
A circle there of merry listeners stand, 
Or to some well-known measure fcatly move, 
Thoughtless, as if on shore they still were free 
to rove. 

XXII. 

Through Calpe's straits survey the steepy 

shore ; 
Europe and Afric, on each other gaze ! 
Lands of the dark-eyed Maid and dusky 

Moor, 
Alike beheld beneath pale Hecate's blaze: 
How softly on the Spanish shore she plays 
Disclosing rock, and slope, and forest brown 
Distinct, though darkening with her waning 

phase ; 
But Mauritania's giant-shadows frown, 
From mountain-cliff to coast descending som- 
bre down. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 81 

XXIII. 

'Tis night, when Meditation bids us feel 
We once have loved, though love is at an 

end: 
The heart, lone mourner of its baffled zeal, 
Though friendless now, will dream it had a 

friend, 
Who with the weight of years would wish to 

bend, 
When Youth itself survives young Love and 

Joy? 
Alas! when mingling souls forget to blend, 
Death hath but little left him to destroy! 
Ah, happy years! once more who would not 

be a boy? 

xxiv. 
Thus bending o'er the vessel's laving side, 
To gaze on Dian's wave-reflected sphere, 
The soul forgets her schemes of Hope and 

Pride, 
And flies unconscious o'er each backward 

year. 
None are so desolate but something dear, 
Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd 
A thought, and claims the homage of a tear; 
A flashing pang! of which the weary breast 
Would still, albeit in vain, the heavy heart 

divest. 



82 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

xxv. 

To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, 
To slowly trace the forest's shady scene, 
Where things that own not man's dominion 

dwell, 
And mortal foot hath ne'er or rarely been ; 
To climb the trackless mountain all unseen, 
With the wild flock that never needs a fold ; 
Alone o'er steeps and foaming falls to lean: 
This is not solitude; 'tis but to hold 
Converse with Nature's charms, and view her 
stores unroll'd. 

XXVI. 

But 'midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of 

men, 
To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess, 
And roam along, the world's tired denizen, 
With none who bless us, none whom we can 

bless; 
Minions of splendor shrinking from distress! 
None that, with kindred consciousness en- 
dued. 
If we were not, would seem to smile the less 
Of all that flatter'd, follow'd, sought, and 
sued: 
This is to be alone; this, this is solitude! 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 83 

XXVII. 

More blest the life of godly Eremite, 
Such as on lonely Athos may be seen, 
Watching at eve upon the giant height, 
Which looks o'er waves so blue, skies so 

serene, 
That he who there at such an hour hath 

been, 
Will wistful linger on that hallowed spot; 
Then slowly tear him from the witching 

scene, 
Sigh forth one wish that such had been his 
lot, 
Then turn to hate a world he had almost for- 
got. 

XXVIII. 

Pass we the long, unvarying course, the 

track 
Oft trod, that never leaves a trace behind ; 
Pass we the calm, the gale, the change, the 

tack, 
And each well-known caprice of wave and 

wind ; 
Pass we the joys and sorrows sailors find, 
Cooped in their winged sea-girt citadel ; 
The foul, the fair, the contrary, the kind, 
As breezes rise and fall, and billows swell, 



84 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Till on some jocund morn — lo, land! and all is 
well. 

XXIX. 

But not in silence pass Calypso's isles,* 
The sister tenants of the middle deep; 
There for the weary still a haven smiles, 
Though the fair goddess long hath ceased to 

weep, 
And o'er her cliffs a fruitless watch to keep 
For him who dared prefer a mortal bride; 
Here, too, his boy essay'd the dreadful leap 
Stern Mentor urged from high to yonder 

tide; 
While thus of both bereft, the nymph-queen 
doubly sigh'd. 

xxx. 
Her reign is past, her gentle glories gone: 
But trust not this: too easy youth, beware! 
A mortal sovereign holds her dangerous 

throne, 
And thou may'st find a new Calypso there. 
Sweet Florence! could another ever share 
This wayward, loveless heart, it would be 

thine : 
But check'd by every tie, I may not dare 
To cast a worthless offering at thy shrine, 

* Goza is said to have been the island of Calypso. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 85 

Nor ask so dear a breast to feel one pang for 
mine. 

XXXI. 

Thus Harold deem'd, as on that lady's eye 
He look'd, and met its beam without a 

thought, 
Save Admiration glancing harmless by : 
Love kept aloof, albeit not far remote, 
Who knew his votary often lost and caught, 
But knew him as his worshipper no more, 
And ne'er again the boy his bosom sought: 
Since now he vainly urged him to adore, 
Well deem'd the little god his ancient sway 
was o'er. 

XXXII. 

Fair Florence found, in sooth with some 

amaze, 
One who, 'twas said, still sigh'd to all he 

saw, 
Withstand, unmoved, the lustre of her gaze, 
Which others hail'd with real or mimic awe, 
Their hope, their doom, their punishment, 

their law: 
All that gay Beauty from her bondsmen 

claims : 
And much she marvel 'd that a youth so raw 



86 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Nor felt, nor feign 'd at least, the oft-told 
flames, 
Which, though sometimes they frown, yet 
rarely anger dames. 

XXXIII. 

Little knew she that seeming marble heart, 
Now mask'd by silence or withheld by pride, 
Was not unskilful in the spoiler's art, 
And spread its snares licentious far and wide ; 
Nor from the base pursuit had turn'd aside, 
As long as naught was worthy to pursue : 
But Harold on such arts no more relied ; 
And had he doted on those eyes so blue, 
Yet never would he join the lover's whining 
crew. 

XXXIV. 

Not much he kens. I ween, of woman's 
breast. 

Who thinks that wanton thing is won by 
sighs: 

What careth she for hearts when once pos- 
sessed? 

Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes, 

But not too humbly, or she will despise 

Thee and thy suit, though told in moving 
tropes; 

Disguise even tenderness, if thou art wise; 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 87 

Brisk Confidence still best with woman copes ; 
Pique her and soothe in turn, soon Passion 
crowns thy hopes. 

xxxv. 

'Tis an old lesson : Time approves it true, 
And those who know it best deplore it most ; 
When all is won that all desire to woo, 
The paltry prize is hardly worth the cost: 
Youth wasted, minds degraded, honor lost, 
These are thy fruits, successful Passion! 

these! 
If, kindly cruel, early hope is crost, 
Still to the last it rankles, a disease, 
Not to be cured when Love itself forgets to 

please. 

xxxvi. 
Away! nor let me loiter in my song, 
For we have many a mountain path to tread, 
And many a varied shore to sail along, 
By pensive Sadness, not by Fiction, led — 
Climes, fair withal as ever mortal head 
Imagined in its little schemes of thought; 
Or e'er in new Utopias were read, 
To teach man what he might be, or he ought ; 
If that corrupted thing could ever such be 
taught. 



88 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

XXXVII. 

Dear Nature is the kindest mother still; 
Though always changing, in her aspect mild: 
From her bare bosom let me take my fill, 
Her never-weaned, though not her favor'd 

child. 
Oh! she is fairest in her features wild 
Where nothing polish'd dares pollute her 

path: 
To me by day or night she ever smil'd, 
Though I have marked her when none other 

hath, 
And sought her more and more, and loved 

her best in wrath. 

XXX VI II. 

Land of Albania! where Iskander rose; 
Theme of the young, and beacon of the wise. 
And he his namesake, whose oft-baffled foes 
Shrunk from his deeds of chivalrous emprise: 
Land of Albania' let me bend mine eyes 
On thee, thou rugged nurse of savage men ! 
The cross descends, thy minarets arise, 
And the pale crescent sparkles in the glen, 
Through many a cypress grove within each 
city's ken. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 89 

xxxix. 
Childe Harold sail'd, and pass'd the barren 

spot 
Where sad Penelope o'erlook'd the wave;* 
And onward view'd the mount, not yet 

forgot, 
The lover's refuge, and the Lesbian's grave. 
Dark Sappho! could not verse immortal save 
That breast imbued with such immortal fire? 
Could she not live who life eternal gave? 
If life eternal may await the lyre, 
That only Heaven to which Earth's children 

may aspire. 

XL. 

'Twas on a Grecian autumn's gentle eve, 
Childe Harold hail'd Leucadia's cape afar;f 
A spot he long'd to see, nor cared to leave: 
Oft did he mark the senses of vanish'd war, 
Actium, Lepanto, fatal Trafalgar :J 
Mark them unmoved, for he would not 

delight 
(Born beneath some remote inglorious star) 
In themes of bloody fray, or gallant fight, 

*Ithaca. 

fLeucadia, now Santa Maura. From the promontory (the 
Lover's Leap) Sappho is said to have thrown herself. 

iActium and Trafalgar need no further mention. The battle 
of Lepanto, equally bloody and considerable but less known, 
was fought in the gulf of Patras. Here the author of Don 
Quixote lost his left hand. 



00 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

But loath'd the bravo's trade, and laugh'd at 
martial wight. 

XLI. 

But when he saw the evening star above 
Leucadia's far-projecting rock of woe, 
And hail'd the last resort of fruitless love, 
He felt, or deem'd he felt, no common glow: 
And as the stately vessel glided slow 
Beneath the shadow of that ancient mount, 
He watch 'd the billows' melancholy flow, 
And, sunk albeit in thought as he was wont, 
More placid seem'd his eye, and smooth his 
pallid front. 

XL1I. 

Morn dawns; and with it stern Albania's 

hills, 
Dark Suli's rocks, and Pindus' inland peak, 
Robed half in mist, bedew'd with snowy rills, 
Array'd in many a dun and purple streak, 
Arise; and, as the clouds along them break, 
Disclose the dwelling of the mountaineer; 
Here roams the wolf, the eagle whets his 

beak, 
Birds, beasts of prey, and wilder men appear, 
And gathering storms around convulse the 

closing year. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 91 

XLIII. 

Now Harold felt himself at length alone, 
And bade to Christian tongues a long adieu: 
Now he adventured on a shore unknown, 
Which all admire, but many dread to view: 
His breast was arm'd 'gainst fate, his wants 

were few: 
Peril he sought not, but ne'er shrank to 

meet: 
The scene was savage, but the scene was 

new ; 
This made the ceaseless toil of travel sweet, 
Beat back keen winter's blast, and welcomed 

summer's heat. 

XLIV. 

Here the red cross, for still the cross is 

here, 
Though sadly scoff' d at by the circumcised, 
Forgets that pride to pamper' d priesthood 

dear; 
Churchman and votary alike despised. 
Foul Superstition! howsoe'er disguised, 
Idol, saint, virgin, prophet, crescent, cross, 
For whatsoever symbol thou art prized, 
Thou sacerdotal gain, but general loss! 
Who from true worship's gold can separate 

thy dross? 



92 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

XLV. 

Ambracia's gulf behold, where once was lost 
A world for woman, lovely, harmless thing! 
In yonder rippling bay, their naval host 
Did many a Roman chief and Asian king* 
To doubtful conflict, certain slaughter bring: 
Look where the second Caesar's trophies 

rosc,f 
Now, like the hands than rear'd them, with- 
ering; 
Imperial anarchs, doubling human woes! 
God! was thy globe ordain'd for such to win 
and lose? 

XLVI. 

From the dark barriers of that rugged clime, 

E'en to the centre of Illyria's vales, 

Childe Harold pass'd o'er many a mount 

sublime, 
Through lands scarce noticed in historic 

tales: 
Yet in famed Attica such lovely dales: 
Are rarely seen; nor can fair Tempe boast 
A charm they know not: loved Parnassus 

fails, 



*It is said that, on the day previous to the battle of Actium, 
Antony had thirteen kings at his levee. 

t Nicopolts, whose ruins are most extensive, is at some dis- 
tance from Actium, where the wall of the Hippodrome survives 
in a few fragments. These ruins are large masses of brickwork, 
the bricks of which are joined by interstices of mortar, as large 
as the bricks themselves, and equally durable. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 93 

Through classic ground, and consecrated 
most, 
To match some spots that lurk within this 
lowering coast. 



XLVII. 

He pass'd bleak Pindus, Acherusia's lake,* 
And left the primal city of the land, 
And onward did his further journey take 
To greet Albania's chief, whose dread com- 
mand f 
Is lawless law ; for with a bloody hand 
He sways a nation, turbulent and bold : 
Yet here and there some daring mountain- 
band 
Disdain his power, and from their rocky 
hold 
Hurl their defiance far, nor yield, unless to 
gold. { 

♦According to Pouqueville, the lake of Yanina: but Pouque- 
ville is always out. 

t The celebrated Ali Pacha. Of this extraordinary man there 
is an incorrect account in Pouqueville's Travels. 

% Five thousand Suliotes, among the rocks and in the castle 
of Suli, withstood thirty thousand Albanians for eighteen years: 
the castle at last was taken by bribery. In this contest there were 
several acts performed not unworthy of the better days of 
Greece. 



94 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

XLVIII. 

Monastic Zitza! from thy shady brow,* 
Thou small, but favor'd spot of holy ground! 
Where'er we gaze, around, above, below, 
What rainbow tints, what magic charms are 

found ! 
Rock, river, forest, mountain all abound, 
And bluest skies that harmonize the whole 
Beneath, the distant torrent's rushing sound 
Tells where the volumed cataract doth roll 
Between those hanging rocks, that shock yet 

please the soul. 

XLIX. 

Amidst the grove that crowns yon tufted 

hill, 
Which, were it not for many a mountain 

nigh 
Rising in lofty ranks, and loftier still, 
Might well itself be deem'd of dignity, 
The convent's white walls glisten fair on 

high; 



♦The convent and village of Zitza are four hours' journey 
from Joannina, or Yanina, the capital of the pachalic. In the 
valley the river Kalamas (once the Acheron) flows, and not far 
from'Zitza forms a fine cataract. The situation is perhaps the 
finest in Greece, though the approach to Delvinachi and parts of 
Acarnania and jEtolia may contest the palm. Delphi, Parnas- 
sus, and, in Attica, even Cape Colonna and Port Raphti, are very 
inferior; as also every scene in Ionia, or the Troad: I am almost 
inclined to add, the approach to Constantinople; but, from the 
different features of the last, a comparison can hardly be made. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 95 

Here dwells the caloyer,* nor rude is he, 
Nor niggard of his cheer, the passer-by 
Is welcomed still ; nor heedless will he flee 
From hence, if he delight kind Nature's sheen 
to see. 

L. 

Here in the sultriest season let him rest, 
Fresh is the green beneath those aged trees; 
Here winds of gentlest wing will fan his 

breast, 
From heaven itself he may inhale the breeze : 
The plain is far beneath — oh ! let him seize 
Pure pleasure while he can ; the scorching ray 
Here pierceth not, impregnate with disease: 
Then let his length the loitering pilgrim lay, 
And gaze, untired, the morn, the noon, the 
eve away. 

LI. 

Dusky and huge, enlarging on the sight, 
Nature's volcanic ampitheater,f 
Chimera's alps extend from left to right: 
Beneath, a living valley seems to stir; 
Flocks play, trees wave, streams flow, the 

mountain fir 
Nodding above; behold black Acheron !f 

* The Greek monks are so called. 

■fThe Chimariot mountains appear to have been volcanic. 

JNow called Kalamas. 



96 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Once consecrated to the sepulchre. 
Pluto! if this be hell I look upon, 
Close shamed Elysium's gates, my shade shall 
seek for none. 

LII. 

Ne city's towers pollute the lovely view; 
L'nseen is Yanina, though not remote, 
Yeil'd by the screen of hills: here men are 

few, 
Scanty the hamlet, rare the lonely cot; 
But, peering down each precipice, the goat 
Browseth: and, pensive o'er his scattered 

flock, 
The little shepherd in his white capote* 
Doth lean his boyish form along the rock, 
Or in his cave awaits the tempest's short-lived 

shock. 

LXII. 

Oh ! where, Dodona, is thine aged grove, 
Prophetic fount, and oracle divine? 
What valley echoed the response of Jove? 
What trace remaineth of the Thunderer's 

shrine? 
All, all forgotten — and shall man repine 
That his frail bonds to fleeting life are broke? 

*Albanese cloak. 




Slowly he falls, amidst triumphant cries."- Page 59. 

child,. Harold's Pilgrimage. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 97 

Cease, fool! the fate of gods may well be 

thine: 
Wouldst thou survive the marble or the oak, 
When nations, tongues, and worlds must sink 

beneath the stroke? 

LIV. 

Epirus' bounds recede, and mountains fail; 
Tired of upgazing still, the wearied eye 
Reposes gladly on as smooth a vale 
As ever Spring yelad in grassy dye : 
Even on a plain no humble beauties lie, 
Where some bold river breaks the lone ex- 

panse, 
And woods along the bank are waving high, 
Whose shadows in the glassy waters dance, 
Or with the moonbeam sleep in midnight's 

solemn trance. 

LV. 

The sun had sunk behind vast Tomerit,* 
The Laos wide and fierce came roaring by;f 
The shades of wonted night were gathering 
yet, 

* Anciently Mount Tomarus. 

f The river Laos was full at the time the author passed it; 
and, immediately above Tepaleen. was to the eye as wide as 
the Thames at Westminster— at least in the opinion of the 
author and his fellow-traveler. In the summer it must be much 
narrower. It certainly is the finest river in the Levant; neither 
Achelous, Alpheus, Acheron, Scamander, nor Cayster, ap- 
proached it in breadth or beauty. 

7 



98 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

When, down the steep banks winding wearily 
Childe Harold saw, like meteors in the sky, 
The glittering minarets of Tepalen, 
Whose walls o'erlook the stream ; and draw- 
ing nigh, 
He heard the busy hum of warrior-men 
Swelling the breeze that sighed along the 
lengthening glen. 

LVI. 

He pass'd the sacred Haram's silent tower, 
And underneath the wide o'erarching gate 
Survey'd the dwelling of this chief of power, 
Where all around proclaim'd his high estate. 
Amidst no common pomp the despot sate, 
While busy preparation shook the court ; 
Slaves, eunuchs, soldiers, guests, and san- 

tons wait; 
Within, a palace, and without a fort, 
Here men of every clime appear to make 

resort. 

lvii. 

Richly caparison 'd, a ready row 
Of armed horse, and many a war-like store, 
Circled the wide-extending court below; 
Above, strange groups adorned the corri- 

dore; 
And ofttimes through the area's echoing 
door, 



CHILDE HAROLD"S PILGRIMAGE. 99 

Some high-capp'd Tartar spurr'd his steed 

away ; 
The Turk, the Greek, the Albanian, and the 

Moor, 
Here mingled in their many-hued array, 
While the deep war-drum's sound announced 

the close of day. 

LVIII. 

The wild Albanian kirtled to his knee, 
With shawl-girt head and ornamented gun, 
And gold-embroider'd garments, fair to see: 
The crimson-scarfed men of Macedon; 
The Delhi with his cap of terror on, 
And crooked glaive; the lively, supple 

Greek ; 
And swarthy Nubia's mutilated son, 
The bearded Turk, that rarely deigns to 

speak, 
Master of all around, too potent to be meek,. 

LIX. 

Are mix'd conspicuous; some recline in 

groups, 
Scanning the motley scene that varies round ; 
There some grave Moslem to devotion 

stoops, 
And some that smoke, and some that play 

are found; 



100 CHILUE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Here the Albanian proudly treads the 

ground ; 
Half-whispering there the Greek is heard to 

prate ; 
Hark! from the mosque the nightly solemn 

sound, 
The "Muezzin's call doth shake the minaret, 
" There is no god but God! — to prayer — lo! 

God is great!" 

LX. 

Just at this season Ramazani's fast 
Through the long day its penance did main- 
tain. 
But when the lingering twilight hour was 

past. 
Revel and feast assumed the rule again: 
Now all was bustle and the menial train 
Prepared and spread the plenteous board 

within ; 
The vacant gallery now seem'd made in 

vain, 
But from the chambers came the mingling 
din, 
As page and slave anon were passing out and 
in. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 101 

LXI. 

Here woman's voice is never heard: apart 
And scarce permitted, guarded, veil'd, to 

move, 
She yields to one her person and her heart, 
Tamed to her cage, nor feels a wish to rove j 
For, not unhappy in her master's love, 
And joyful in a mother's gentlest cares, 
Blest cares! all other feelings far above! 
Herself more sweetly rears the babe she 

bears, 
Who never quits the breast, no meaner passion 

shares. 

LXII. 

In marble-paved pavilion, where a spring 
Of living water from the center rose, 
Whose bubbling did a genial freshness fling, 
And soft voluptuous couches breathed repose, 
Ali reclined, a man of war and woes: 
Yet in his lineaments ye cannot trace, 

While Gentleness her milder radiance throws 
Along that aged venerable face, 

The deeds that lurk beneath, and stain him 
with disgrace. 

LXIII. 

It is not that yon hoary lengthening beard 
111 suits the passions which belong to youth: 



102 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Love conquers age — so Hafiz hath averr'd, 
So sings the Teian, and he sings in sooth — 
But crimes that scorn the tender voice of 

ruth. 
Beseeming all men ill, but most the man 
In years, have mark'd him with a tiger's 

tooth: 
Blood follows blood, and through their mor- 
tal span. 
In bloodier acts conclude those who with 
blo<»d began. 

1 XIV. 

'Mid many things most new to ear and eye, 

The pilgrim rested here his weary feet, 
And gazed around on Moslem luxury. 
Till quickly wearied with that spacious seat 
Of Wealth and Wantonness, the choice re- 
treat 
Of sated Grandeur from the city's noise: 
And were it humbler, it in sooth were sweet; 
But Peace abhurreth artificial joys, 
And Pleasure, leagued with Pomp, the zest of 
both destroys. 

LXV. 

Fierce are Albania's children, yet they lack 
Not virtues, were those virtues more mature. 
Where is the foe that ever saw their back? 



CH1LDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 103 

Who can so well the toil of war endure? 

Their native fastnesses not more secure 

Than they in doubtful time of troublous 
need: 

Their wrath how deadly! but their friend- 
ship sure. 

When Gratitude or Valor bids them bleed, 
Unshaken rushing on where'er their chief 
may lead. 

LXVI. 

Childe Harold saw them in their chieftain's 
tower, 

Thronging to war in splendor and success; 

And after view'd them, when, within their 
power, 

Himself awhile the victim of distress: 

That saddening hour when bad men hotlier 
press : 

But these did shelter him beneath their roof, 

When less barbarians would have cheer'd 
him less, 

And fellow-countrymen have stood aloof* — 
In aught that tries the heart how few with- 
stand the proof! 

* Alluding to the wreckers of Cornwall. 



104 CHILDE HAROLDS PILGRIMAGE. 

LXVII. 

It chanced that adverse winds once drove 
his bark 

Full on the coast of Suli's shaggy shore, 

When all around was desolate and dark ; 

To land was perilous, to sojourn more ; 

Yet for awhile the mariners forbore, 

Dubious to trust where treachery might lurk ; 

At length they ventured forth, though doubt- 
ing sore 

That those who loathe alike the Frank and 
Turk 
Might once again renew their ancient butcher- 
work. 

LXVIII. 

Vain fear! the Suliotes stretch 'd the welcome 
hand, 

Led them o'er rocks and past the dangerous 
swamp. 

Kinder than polish 'd slaves, though not so 
bland, 

And piled the hearth, and wrung their gar- 
ments damp, 

And fill'd the bowl, and trimm'd the cheer- 
ful lamp, 

And spread their fare, though homely, all 
they had: 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 105 

Such conduct bears Philanthropy's rare 

stamp — 
To rest the weary and to soothe the sad, 
Doth lesson happier men, and shames at least 
the bad. 

LXIX. 

It came to pass, that when he did address 
Himself to quit at length this mountain 

kind, 
Combined marauders half-way barr'd egress, 
And wasted far and near with glaive and 

brand ; 
And therefore did he take a trusty band 
To traverse Acarnania's forest wide, 
In war well season'd, and with labors tann'd, 
Till he did greet white Achelous' tide, 
And from his farther bank ^Etolia's wolds 

espied. 

LXX. 

Where lone Utraikey forms its circling cove, 
And weary waves retire to gleam at rest, 
How brown the foliage of the green hill's 

grove, 
Nodding at midnight o'er the calm bay's 

breast, 
As winds come whispering lightly from the 

west, 



106 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep's serene; 

Here Harold was received a welcome guest; 

Nor did he pass unmoved the gentle scene, 

For many a joy could he from night's soft 

presence glean. 

LXXI. 

On the smooth shore the night-fires brightly 

blazed, 
The feast was done, the red wine circling 

fast,* 
And he that unawares had there ygazed 
With gaping wonderment had stared aghast; 
For ere night's midmost, stillest hour was 

past, 
The native revels of the troop began; 
Each Palikar f his sabre from him cast, 
And bounding hand in hand, man link'd to 

man, 
Yelling their uncouth dirge, long danced the 

kirtled clan. 

LXXII. 

Childe Harold at a little distance stood, 
And view'd, but not displeased, the revelrie, 
Nor hated harmless mirth, however rude: 



* The Albanian Mussulmans do not abstain from wine, and, 
indeed very few of the others. 

t Palikar. a general name for a soldier amongst the Greeks 
and Albanese who speak Romaic; it means, properly, "a lad." 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 107 

In sooth, it was no vulgar sight to see 
Their barbarous, yet their not indecent, 

glee: 
And as the flames along their faces gleam'd, 
Their gestures nimble, dark eyes flashing 

free, 
The long wild locks that to their girdles 

stream'd, 
While thus in concert they this lay half-sang, 

half-screamed : 

Tambourgi ! Tambourgi !* thy larum afar 
Gives hope to the valiant, and promise of 

war; 
All the sons of the mountains arise at the 

note, 
Chimariot, Illyrian, and dark Suliotelf 

Oh ! who is more brave than a dark Suliote, 
In his snowy camese and his shaggy capote? 
To the wolf and the vulture he leaves his wild 

flock, 
And descends to the plain like the stream 

from the rock. 

Shall the sons of Chimari, who never forgive 
The fault of a friend, bid an enemy live? 

* Drummer. 

t These stanzas are partly taken from different Albanese 
>ongs, as far as I was able to make them out by the exposition 
)f the Albanese in Romaic and Italian. 



108 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Let those guns so unerring such vengeance 

forego? 
What mark is so fair as the breast of a foe? 

Macedonia sends forth her invincible race ; 
For a time they abandon the cave and the 

chase : 
But those scarfs of blood-red shall be redder, 

before 
The sabre is sheathed and the battle is o'er. 

Then the pirates of Parga that dwell by the 

waves, 
And teach the pale Franks what it is to be 

slaves. 
Shall leave on the beach the long galley and 

oar, 
And track to his covert the captive on shore. 

I ask not the pleasure that riches supply, 
My sabre shall win what the feeble must 

buy; 
Shall win the young bride with her long 

flowing hair, 
And many a maid from her mother shall 

tear. 

I love the fair face of the maid in her youth ; 
Her caresses shall lull me, her music shall 
soothe : 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 109 

Let her bring from her chamber the many- 
toned lyre, 
And sing us a song on the fall of her sire. 

Remember the moment when Previsa fell,* 

The shrieks of the conquer'd, the conquer- 
ors' yell: 

The roofs that we fired, and the plunder we 
shared, 

The wealthy we slaughter' d, the lovely we 
spared. 

I talk not of mercy, I talk not of fear; 
He neither must know who would serve the 
Vizier: 
Since the days of our prophet the crescent 

ne'er saw 
A chief ever glorious like Ali Pashaw. 

Dark Muchtar his son to the Danube is sped, 
Let the yellow-haired \ Giaours view his hor:» 

tail with dread ; 
When his Delhis J come dashing in blood o'er 

the banks, 
How few shall escape from the Muscovite 

ranks ! 

* It was taken by storm from the French. 
t Yellow is the epithet given to the Russians. Giaour: In- 
fidel. Horsetail: the insignia of a Pasha. 

% Horsemen, answering to our forlorn hope. 



110 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Selictar! * tmsheath then our chief's scimitar; 
Tambourgi! thy larum gives promise of war. 
Ye mountains that see us descend to the shore, 
Shall view us as victors, or view us no more! 

LXXIII. 

Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! 
Immortal, though no more; though fallen, 

great ! 
Who now shall lead thy scatter'd children 

forth, 
And long accustom'd bondage uncreate? 
Not such thy sons who whilome did await, 
The hopeless warriors of a willing doom, 
In bleak Thermopylae's sepulchral strait — 
Oh, who that gallant spirit shall resume, 
Leap from Eurotas' banks, and call thee from 

the tomb? 

I. XXIV. 

Spirit of Freedom! when on Phylc's brow \ 
Thou satst with Thrasybulus and his train, 
Couldst thou forebode the dismal hour which 

now 
Dims the green beauties of thine Attic plain? 
Not thirty tyrants now enforce the chain, 

* "Selictar," swordbearer. 

t Phyle, which commands a beautiful view of Athens, has 
still considerable remains. It was seized by Thrasybulus prev- 
ious to the expulsion of the Thirty. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. Ill 

But every carle can lord it o'er thy land 
Nor rise thy sons, but idly rail in vain, 
Trembling beneath the scourge of Turkish 

hand, 
From birth till death enslaved; in word, in 

deed, unmann'd. 

LXXV. 

In all save form alone, how changed ! and 

who 
That marks the fire still sparkling in each 

eye, 
Who would but deem their bosom burn'd 

anew 
With thy unquenched beam, lost Liberty! 
And many dream withal the hour is nigh 
That gives them back their fathers' heritage: 
For foreign arms and aid they fondly sigh, 
Nor solely dare encounter hostile rage, 
Or tear their name defiled from Slavery's 

mournful page. 

LXXVI. 

Hereditary bondsmen ! know ye not 

Who would be free themselves must strike 

the blow? 
By their right arms the conquest must be 

wrought! 
Will Gaul or Muscovite redress ye? No! 



112 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

True, they may lay your proud despoilers 

low, 
But not for you will Freedom's altars flame. 
Shades of the Helots! triumph o'er your foe: 
Greece! change thy lords, thy state is still 

the same; 
Thy glorious day is o'er, but not thy years of 

shame. 

LXXVII. 

The city won for Allah from the Giaour, 
The Giaour from Othman's race again may 

wrest ; 
And the Serai's impenetrable tower 
Receive the fiery Frank, her former guest; * 
Or Wahab's rebel brood, who dared divest 
The prophet's tomb of all its pious spoil, \ 
May wind their path of blood along the West; 
But ne'er will freedom seek this fated soil, 
But slave succeed to slave through years of 

endless toil. 

LXXVIII. 

Yet mark their mirth — ere lenten days begin, 
That penance which their holy rites prepare 
To shrive from man his weight of mortal 
sin, 

* When taken by the Latins, and retained for several years, 
t Mecca and Medina were taken some time ago by the Waha- 
bees, a sect yearly increasing. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 113 

By daily abstinence and nightly prayer; 
But ere his sackcloth garb Repentance wear, 
Some days of joyance are decreed to all, 
To take of pleasance each his secret share, 
In motley robe to dance at masking ball, 
And join the mimic train of merry Carnival. 

LXXIX. 

And whose more rife with merriment than 

thine, 
O Stamboul! once the empress of their 

reign? 
Though turbans now pollute Sophia's shrine, 
And Greece her very altars eyes in vain : 
(Alas ! her woes will still pervade my strain !) 
Gay were her minstrels once, for free her 

throng, 
All felt the common joy they now must feign ; 
Nor oft I've seen such sight, nor heard such 

song, 
As woo'd the eye and thrill'd the Bosphorus 

along. 

LXXX. 

Loud was the lightsome tumult on the shore ; 
Oft Music changed, but never ceased her 

tone, 
And timely echo'd back the measured oar, 
And rippling waters made a pleasant moan : 



114 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

The Queen of tides on high consenting shone ; 
And when a transient breeze swept o'er the 

wave, 
'Twas as if, darting from her heavenly 

throne, 
A brighter glance her form reflected gave, 
Till sparkling billows seem'd to light the banks 

they lave. 

LXXXI. 

Glanced many a light caique along the foam, 
Danced on the shore the daughters of the 

land, 
No thought had man or maid of rest or home, 
While many a languid eye and thrilling hand 
Exchanged the look few bosoms may with- 
stand, 
Or gently prest, return'd the pressure still: 
Oil Love! young Love! bound in thy rosy 

band, 
Let sage or cynic prattle as he will, 
These hours, and only these, redeem'd Life's 
years of ill! 

LXXXII. 

But, 'midst the throng in merry masquerade, 
Lurk there no hearts that throb with secret 
pain, 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 115 

Even through the closest searment half-be- 
tray 'd? 
To such the gentle murmurs of the main 
Seem to re-echo all they mourn in vain ; 
To such the gladness of the gamesome crowd 
Is source of wayward thought and stern dis- 
dain : 
How do they loathe the laughter idly loud, 
knd long to change the robe of revel for the 
shroud! 

LXXXIII. 

This must he feel, the true-born son of 

Greece, 
If Greece one true-born patriot can still 

boast : 
Not such as prate of war, but skulk in peace, 
The bondsman's peace, who sighs for all he 

lost, 
Yet with smooth smile his tyrant can accost, 
And wield the slavish sickle, not the sword : 
Ah, Greece! they love thee least who owe 

thee most — 
Their birth, their blood, and that sublime 

record 
Of hero sires, who shame thy now degenerate 

horde ! 



11G CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

LXXXIV. 

AVhen riseth Lacedaemon's hardihood, 
When Thebes Epaminondas rears again, 
When Athens' children are with hearts 

endued, 
When Grecian mothers shall give birth to 

men, 
Then may'st thou be restored; but not till 

then. 
A thousand years scarce serve to form a state ; 
An hour may lay it in the dust: and when 
Can man its shatter'd splendor renovate, 
Recall its virtues back, and vanquish Time and 

Fate? 

LXXXV. 

And yet how lovely in thine age of woe, 
Land of lost gods and godlike men, art thou! 
Thy vales of evergreen, thy hills of snow,* 
Proclaim thee Nature's varied favorite now; 
Thy fanes, thy temples to the surface bow 
Commingling slowly with heroic earth, 
Broke by the share of every rustic plough: 
So perish monuments of mortal birth, 
So perish all in turn, save well-recorded Worth;. 

* On many of the mountains, particularly Liakura, the snow '. 
never is entirely melted, notwithstanding the intense heat of the , 
summer; but I "never saw it lie on the plains, even in winter. t 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 117 

LXXXVI. 

Save where some solitary column mourns 
Above its prostrate brethren of the cave ; * 
Save where Tritonia's airy shrine adorns 
Colonna' s cliff, and gleams along the wave ; f 
Save o'er some warrior's half-forgotten grave 
Where the gray stones and unmolested grass 
Ages, but not oblivion, feebly brave, 



* Of Mount Pentelicus, from whence the marble was dug that 
constructed the public edifices of Athens. The modern name is 
Mount Mendeli. An immense cave formed by the quarries still 
remains, and will till the end of time. 

f In all Attica, if we except Athens itself and Marathon 
there is no scene more interesting than Cape Colonna. To the 
antiquary and artist, sixteen columns are an inexhaustible 
source of observation and design; to the philosopher, the sup- 
posed scene of some of Plato's conversations will not be unwel- 
come; and the traveler will be struck with the beauty of the 
prospect over "isles that crown the iEgian deep;" but, for an 
Englishman, Colonna has yet an additional interest, as the actual 
spot of Falconer's shipwreck. Pallas and Plato are forgotten, in 
the recollection of Falconer and Campbell: 

"Here in the dead of night by Lonna's steep, 
The seaman's cry was heard along the deep." 

This temple of Minerva may be seen at sea from a great distance. 
In two journeys which I made, and one voyage to Cape Colonna, 
the view from either side by land was more striking than the ap- 
proach from the isles. In our second land excursion we had a 
narrow escape from a party of Mainotes concealed in the cav- 
erns beneath. We were told afterwards by one of their pris- 
ones, subsequently ransomed, that they were deterred from 
attacking us by the appearance of my two Albanians; conject- 
uring very sagaciously, but falsely, that we had a complete 
guard of these Araouts at hand, they remained stationary, and 
thus saved our party, which was too "small to have opposed any 
effectual resistance. Colonna is no less a resort of painters than 
of pirates: there 

"The hireling artist plants his paltry desk, 
And makes degraded nature picturesque." — 

(See Hodgson's "Lady Jane Gray," etc.) 

But there Nature, with the aid of Art, has done that for herself. 
I was fortunate enough to engage a very superior German artist, 
and hope to renew my acquaintance with this and many other 
Levantine scenes by the arrival of his performances. 



118 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

While strangers only not reg-ardless pass, 
Lingering, like me, perchance, to gaze, and 
sigh 4l Alas!" 

LXXXVII. 

Yet are thy skies as blue, thy crags as wild : 
Sweet are thy groves, and verdant are thy 

fields, 
Thine olive ripe as when Minerva smiled, 
And still his honey'd wealth Hymettus 

yields; 
There the blithe bee his fragrant fortress 

builds, 
The freeborn wanderer of thy mountain air; 
Apollo still thy long, long summer gilds, 
Still in his beam Mcndeli's marbles glare; 
Art, Glory, Freedom fail, but Nature still is 

fair. 

LXXXVIII. 

Where'er we tread, 'tis haunted, holy 

ground ; 
No earth of thine is lost in vulgar mould, 
But one vast realm of wonder spreads 

around, 
And all the Muse's tales seem truly told, 
Till the sense aches with gazing to behold 
The scenes our earliest dreams have dwelt 

upon : 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 119 

Each hill and dale, each deepening glen and 

wold, 
Defies the power which crush'd thy temples 

gone: 
Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray 

Marathon. 

LXXXIX. 

The sun, the soil, but not the slave, the 

same, 
Unchanged in all except its foreign lord — 
Preserves alike its bounds and boundless 

fame; 
The battle-field, where Persia's victim horde 
First bow'd beneath the brunt of Hellas' 

sword, 
As on the morn to distant Glory dear, 
When Marathon became a magic word; * 
Which utter'd, to the hearer's eye appear 
The camp, the host, the fight, the conqueror's 

career. 



* "Siste Viator— heroa calcas!" was the epitaph on the 
famous Count Merci;— what, then, must be our feelings when 
standing on the tumulus of the two hundred (Greeks) who fell 
on Marathon? The principal barrow has recently been opened 
by Fauvel: few or no relics, as vases, etc., were found by the 
excavator. The plain of Marathon was offered to me for sale at 
the sum of sixteen thousand piastres, about nine hundred 
pounds! Alas! — "Expende— quot hbras in duce summo— in. 
venies!"— was the dust of Miltiades worth no more? It could 
scarcely have fetched less if sold by weight. 



120 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

xc. 

The flying Mede, his shaftless broken bow; 
The fiery Greek, his red pursuing spear; 
Mountains above, Earth's, Ocean's plain 

below ; 
Death in the front, Destruction in the rear! 
Such was the scene — what now remaineth 

here? 
What sacred trophy marks the hallow 'd 

ground, 
Recording Freedom's smile and Asia's tear? 
The rifled urn, the violated mound, 
The dust thy courser's hoof, rude stranger! 

spurns around. 

xci. 
Yet to the remnants of thy splendor past 
Shall pilgrims, pensive, but unwearied, 

throng ; 
Long shall the voyager, with the Ionian 

blast, 
Hail the bright chime of battle and of song; 
Long shall thine annals and immortal tongue 
Fill with thy fame the youth of many a 

shore: 
Boast of the aged! lesson of the young! 
Which sages venerate and. bards adore, 
As Pallas and the Muse unveil their awful lore. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 121 

xcn. 
The parted bosom clings to wonted home, 
If aught that's kindred cheer the welcome 

hearth ; 
He that is lonely, hither let him roam, 
And gaze complacent on congenial earth. 
Greece is no lightsome land of social mirth ; 
But he whom sadness sootheth may abide, 
And scarce regret the region of his birth, 
When wandering slow by Delphi's sacred 

side, 
Or gazing o'er the plains where Greek and 

Persian died. 

XCIII. 

Let such approach this consecrated land, 
' And pass in peace along the magic waste ; 
But spare its relics — let no busy hand 
Deface the scenes, already how defaced! 
Not for such purpose were these altars 

placed. 

Revere the remnants nations once revered : 

So may our country's name be undisgraced, 

So may'st thou prosper where thy youth was 

rear'd, 

By every honest joy of love and life endear'd! 



122 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

XCIV. 

For thee, who thus in too protracted song 
Hath soothed thine idlesse with inglorious 

lays, 
Soon shall thy voice be lost amid the throng 
Of louder minstrels in these later days: 
To such resign the strife for fading bays — 
111 may such contest now the spirit move 
Which heeds nor keen reproach nor partial 

praise, 
Since cold each kinder heart that might 

approve, 
And none are left to please where none are 

left to love. 

xcv. 
Thou too art gone, thou loved and lovely 

one! 
Whom youth and youth's affections bound 

to me ; 
Who did for me what none beside have done, 
Nor shrank from one albeit unworthy thee. 
What is my being? thou hast ceased to be! 
Nor stay'd to welcome here thy wanderer 

home, 
Who mourns o'er hours which we no more 

shall see — 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 125 

Would they had never been, or were to 
come ! 
Would he had ne'er return'd to find fresh 
cause to roam! 

xcvi. 
Oh! ever loving, lovely, and beloved! 
How selfish Sorrow ponders on the past, 
And clings to thoughts now better far 

removed! 
But Time shall tear thy shadow from me 

last. 
All thou couldst have of mine, stern Death, 

thou hast: 
The parent, friend, and now the more than 

friend; 
Ne'er yet for one thine arrows flew so fast, 
And grief with grief continuing still to blend, 
Hath snatch'd the little joy that life had yet 

to lend. 

xcvn. 
Then must I plunge again into the crowd, 
And follow all that Peace disdains to seek ? 
Where Revel calls, and Laughter, vainly 

loud, 
False to the heart, distorts the hollow cheek, 
To leave the flagging spirit doubly weak! 



124 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Still o'er the features, which perforce they 

cheer, 
To feign the pleasure or conceal the pique; 
Smiles form the channel of a future tear. 
Or raise the writhing lip with ill-dissembled 

sneer. 

XCV1II. 

What is the worst of woes that wait on age? 
What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow? 
To view each loved one blotted from life's 

page 
And be alone on earth, as I am now. 
Before the Chastencr humbly let me bow, 
O'er hearts divided and o'er hopes destroy 'd: 
Roll on, vain days! full reckless may ye flow, 
Since time hath 'reft whate'er my soul 

enjoy 'd, 
And with the ills of Eld mine earlier years 

alloy 'd. 



CANTO THE THIRD. 
1816. 

"Ann que cette application vous forcat de penseraautre 
chose; il n'y a ehverite de remede que celui la et le 
temps."— Lettre du Roi de Prusse a D'Alembert, 
Sept. 7, 1776- 

1. 

Is thy face like thy mother's, my fair child! 
-Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart? 
When last I saw thy young blue eyes, they 

smiled, 
And then we parted,— not as now we part, 
But with a hope. — 

Awaking with a start, 
The waters heave around me ; and on high 
The winds lift up their voices: I depart, 
Whither I know not; but the hour's gone by, 
When Albion's lessening shores could grieve 

or glad mine eye. 

11. 

Once more upon the waters! yet once more! 

And the waves bound beneath me as a steed 

That knows his rider. Welcome to their 

roar ! 

125 



126 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Swift be their guidance, wheresoe'er it lead! 
Though the strain'd mast should quiver as 

a reed, 
And the rent canvas fluttering strew the 

gale, 
Still must I on: for I am as a weed. 
Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to 

sail 
Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's 

breath prevail. 

in. 

In tny youth's summer I did sing of One, 
The wandering outlaw of his own dark 
m ind ; 

Ay;:. in I seize the theme, but begun, 
And bear it with me, as the rushing wind 
Bears the cloud onwards: in that Tale I find 
The furrows of long thought, and dried-up 

tears, 
Which, ebbing, leave a sterile track behind, 
O'er which all heavily the journeying years 
Plod the last sands of life — where not a flower 

appears. 

iv. 
Since my young days of passion — joy, or 
pain, 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 127 

Perchance my heart and harp have lost a 

string, 
And both may jar: it may be, that in vain 
I would essay as I have sung to sing. 
Yet, though a dreary strain, to this I cling, 
So that it wean me from the weary dream 
Of selfish grief or gladness — so it fling 
Forgetfulness around me — it shall seem 
To me, though to none else, a not ungrateful 

theme. 

v. 
He who, grown aged in this world of woe, 
In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of 

life, 
So that no wonder waits him; nor below 
Can love or sorrow, fame, ambition, strife, 
Cut to his heart again with the keen knife 
Of silent, sharp endurance : he can tell 
Why thought seeks refuge in lone eaves, yet 

rife 
With airy images, and shapes which dwell 
Still unimpair'd, though old, in the soul's 

haunted cell. 

VI. 

'Tis to create, and in creating live 
A being more intense, that we endow 
With form our fancy, gaining as we give 



128 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

The life we image, even as I do now. 

What am I? Nothing: but not so art thou, 

Soul of my thought! with whom I traverse 
earth, 

Invisible but gazing, as I glow 

Mix'd with thy spirit, blended with thy 
birth, 
1 feeling -still with thee in my crush'd feel- 
ings' dearth. 

VII. 

Yet must I think less wildly: I have thought 
Too long and darkly, till my brain became, 
In its own eddy boiling and o'erwrought, 
A whirling gulf of phantasy and flame: 
And thus, untaught in youth my heart to 

tame, 
My springs of life were poison'd. 'Tis too 

late ! 
Yet am I changed; though still enough the 

same 
In strength to bear what time can not abate, 
And feed on bitter fruits without accusing Fate. 

VIII. 

Something too much of this: but now 'tis 

past, 
And the spell closes with its silent seal. 
Long-absent Harold reappears at last; 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 129 

He of the breast which fain no more would 

feel, 
Wrung with the wounds which kill not, but 

ne'er heal; 
Yet Time, who changes all, had alter'd him 
In soul and aspect as in age : years steal 
Fire from the mind as vigor from the limb : 
And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the 

brim. 

IX. 

His had been quaff' d too quickly, and he 

found 
The dregs were wormwood; but he fill'd 

again, 
And from a purer fount, on holier ground, 
And deem'd its spring perpetual; but in 

vain! 
Still round him clung invisibly a chain 
Which gall'd for ever, fettering though 

unseen. 
And heavy though it clank'd not; worn with 

pain, 
Which pined although it spoke not, and 

grew keen, 
Entering with every step he took through 

many a scene. 



130 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Secure in guarded coldness, he had mix'd 
Again in fancied safety with his kind, 
And deem'd his spirit now so firmly fix'd 
And sheath'd with an invulnerable mind, 
That, if no joy, no sorrow lurk'd behind; 
And he, as one, might 'midst the many stand 
Unheeded, searching through the crowd to 

find 
Fit speculation; such as in strange land 
He found in wonder-works of God and Nature's 

hand. 

XI. 

But who can view the ripen 'd rose, nor seek 

To wear it? who can curiously behold 

The smoothness and the sheen of beauty's 

cheek, 
Nor feel the heart can never all grow old? 
Who can contemplate Fame through clouds 

unfold 
The star which rises o'er her steep, nor 

climb? 
Harold, once more within the vortex roll'd 
On with the giddy circle, chasing Time, 
Yet with a nobler aim than in his youth's fond 

prime. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 131 
XII. 

But soon he knew himself the most unfit 
Of men to herd with man ; with whom he 

held 
Little in common ; untaught to submit 
His thoughts to others, though his soul was 

quell'd, 
In youth by his own thoughts ; still uncom- 

pell'd, 
He would not yield dominion of his mind 
To spirits against whom his own rebell'd; 
Proud though in desolation ; which could find 
A life within itself, to breathe without man- 
kind. 

XIII. 

Where rose the mountains, there to him 

were friends; 
Where roll'd the ocean, thereon was his 

home, 
Where a blue sky, and glowing clime, 

extends, 
He had the passion and the power to roam; 
The desert, forest, cavern, breaker's foam, 
Were unto him companionship ; they spake 
A mutual language, clearer than the tone 
Of his land's tongue, which he would oft 

forsake 



132 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

For Nature's pages glass'd by sunbeams on the 
lake. 

XIV. 

Like the Chaldean, he could watch the 

stars, 
Till he had peopled them with beings bright 
As their own beams; and earth, and earth- 
born jars, 
And human frailties, were forgotten quite: 
Could he have kept his spirit to that flight, 
He had been happy; but this clay will sink 
Its spark immortal, envying it the light 
To which it mounts, as if to break the link 
That keeps us from yon heaven which woos us 
to its brink. 

xv. 
But in Man's dwellings he became a thing 
Restless and worn, and stern and wearisome, 
Droop'd as a wild-born falcon with dipt wing, 
To whom the boundless air alone were home; 
Then came his fit again, which to o'ercome, 
As eagerly the barr'd-up bird will beat 
His breast and beak against his wiry dome 
Till the blood tinge his plumage, so the heat 
Of his impeded soul would through his bosom 
eat. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 133 

XVI. 

Self-exiled Harold wanders forth again, 
With naught of hope left, but with less of 

gloom ; 
The very knowledge that he lived in vain, 
That all was over on this side the tomb, 
Had made Despair a smilingness assume, 
Which, though 'twere wild — as on the plun- 

der'd wreck 
When mariners would madly meet their 

doom 
With draughts intemperate on the sinking 

deck — 
Did yet inspire a cheer, which he forbore to 

check. 

XVII. 

Stop! for thy tread is on an Empire's dust! 
An Earthquake's spoil is sepulchred below! 
Is the spot mark'd with no colossal bust? 
Nor column trophied for triumphal show? 
None; but the moral's truth tells simpler so, 
As the ground was before, thus let it be ; — 
How that red rain hath made the harvest 

grow ! 
And is this all the world has gain'd by thee, 
Thou first and last of fields! king-making 

Victory? 



134 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

XVIII. 

And Harold stands upon this place of skulls, 
The grave of France, the deadly Waterloo! 
How in an hour the power which gave, annuls 
Its gifts, transferring fame as fleeting too! 
In "pride of place"* here last the eagle flew, 
Then tore with bloody talon the rent plain, 
Pierced by the shaft of banded nations 

through ; 
Ambition's life and labors all were vain; 
He wears the shatter'd links of the world's 

broken chain. 

XIX. 

Fit retribution ! Gaul may champ the bit, 
And foam in fetters, but is Earth more free? 
Did nations combat to make One submit; 
Or league to teach all kings true sovereignty? 
What! shall reviving thraldom again be 
The patch'd-up idol of enlighten'd days? 
Shall we, who struck the Lion down, shall 

we 
Pay the Wolf homage? proffering lowly gaze 
And servile knees to thrones? No, prove 

before ye praise! 

* "In pride of place" is a term of falconry, and means the 
highest pitch of flight. See Macbeth, etc. 

"An eagle towering in his pride of place," etc. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 135 

xx. 
If not, e'er one fallen despot boast no more! 
In vain fair cheeks were furrow'd with hot 

tears 
For Europe's flowers long rooted up before 
The trampler of her vineyards, in vain years 
Of death, depopulation, bondage, fears, 
Have all been borne, and broken by the accord 
Of roused-up millions: all that most endears 
Glory, is when the myrtle wreathes a sword 
Such as Harmodius drew on Athens' tyrant 

lord. * 

XXI. 

There was a sound of revelry by night, 
And Belgium's capital had gather'd then 
Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright 
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave 

men; 
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when 
Music arose with its voluptuous swell, 
Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake 

again, 
And all went merry as a marriage bell ;f 

* See the famous song on Harmodius and Aristogiton. The 
best English translation is in Bland's Anthology, by Mr. (now 
Lord Chief-Justice) Denman: 

"With myrtle my sword will I wreathe, "etc. 

f On the night previous to the action, it is said that a ball was 
given at Brussels. 



136 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a 
rising knell! 

XXII. 

Did ye not hear it? — No ; 'twas but the wind, 
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street; 
On with the dance! let joy be unconfin'd; 
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure 

meet 
To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet. 
But hark! — that heavy sound breaks in once 

more, 
As if the clouds its echo would repeat ; 
And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before! 
Arm! arm! it is — it is — the cannon's opening 

roar! 

XXIII. 

Within a window 'd niche of that high hall 
Sate Brunswick's fated chieftain; he did 

hear 
That sound, the first amidst the festival, 
And caught its tone with Death's prophetic 

ear; 
And when they smiled because he deem'd it 

near, 
His heart more truly knew that peal too 

well 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 137 

Which stretch' d his father on a bloody bier, 
And roused the vengeance blood alone could 
quell ; 
He rush'd into the field, and, foremost fight- 
ing, fell. 

XXIV. 

Ah ! then and there was hurrying to and 
fro, 

And gathering tears, and tremblings of dis- 
tress, 

And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago 

Blush 'd at the praise of their own loveliness; 

And there were sudden partings, such as 
press 

The life from out young hearts, and choking 
sighs 

Which ne'er might be repeated: who would 
guess 

If ever more should meet those mutual eyes, 
Since upon night so sweet such awful morn 
could rise ! 

xxv. 

And there was mounting in hot haste : the 

steed, 
The mustering squadron, and the clattering 

car, 



138 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Went pouring forward with impetuous speed, 
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war; 
And the deep thunder peal on peal afar; 
And near, the beat of the alarming drum 
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star; 
While throng'd the citizens with terror 

dumb, 
Or whispering, with white lips — "The foe! 

They come! they come!" 

XXVI. 

And wild and high the "Cameron's gather- 
ing" rose, 
The war-note of Lochiel, which Albyn's 

hills 
Have heard, and heard, too, have her Saxon 

foes: 
How in the noon of night that pibroch thrills 
Savage and shrill! But with the breath 

which fills 
Their mountain-pipe, so fill the mountaineers 
With the fierce native daring which instils 
The stirring memory of a thousand years, 
And Evan's, Donald's fame rings in each 
clansman's ears!* 



* Sir Evan Cameron, and his descendant Donald, the "gentle 
Lochiel" of the "forty-five." 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 139 

XXVII. 

And Ardennes waves above them her green 

leaves,* 
Dewy with Nature's tear-drops, as they pass, 
Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves, 
Over the unreturning brave, — alas! 
Ere evening to be trodden like the grass 
Which now beneath them, but above shall 

grow 
In its next verdure, when this fiery mass 
Of living valor, rolling on the foe, 
And burning with high hope, shall moulder 

cold and low. 

XXVIII. 

Last noon beheld them full of lusty life, 
Last eve in Beauty's circle proudly gay, 
The midnight brought the signal- sound of 

strife, 
The morn the marshalling in arms, — the day 
Battle's magnificently stern array! 
The thunder-clouds close o'er it, which when 

rent 
The earth is cover'd thick with other clay, 



* The wood of Soignies is supposed to be a remnant of the for- 
est of Ardennes, famous in Boiardo's Orlando, and immortal in 
Shakespeare's As You Like It. It is also celebrated in Tacitus, 
as being the spot of successful defense by the Germans against 
the Roman encroachments. I have ventured to adopt the name 
connected with nobler associations than those of mere slaughter. 



140 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Which her own clay shall cover, heap'd and 
pent, 
Rider and horse, — friend, foe, — in one red 
burial blent! 

XXIX. 

Their praise is hymn'd by loftier harps than 

mine; 
Yet one I would select from that proud 

throng, 
Partly because they blend me with his line, 
And partly that I did his sire some wrong, 
And partly that bright names will hallow 

song; 
And his was of the bravest, and when 

shower'd 
The death-bolts deadliest the thinn'd files 

along, 
Even where the thickest of war's tempest 

lower' d, 
They reach 'd no nobler breast than thine, 

young, gallant Howard! 

xxx. 
There have been tears and breaking hearts 

for thee, 
And mine were nothing, had I such to give ; 
But when I stood beneath the fresh green 

tree. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 141 

Which living waves where thou didst cease 

to live, 
And saw around me the wide field revive 
With fruits and fertile promise, and the 

Spring 
Come forth her work of gladness to contrive, 
With all her reckless birds upon the wing, 
I turn'd from all she brought to those she 

could not bring.* 

XXXI. 

I turn'd to thee, to thousands, of whom each 
And one as all a ghastly gap did make 
In his own kind and kindred, whom to teach 
Forgetfulness were mercy for their sake ; 

* My guide from Mont St. Jean over the field seemed intelli- 
gent and accurate. The place where Major Howard fell was 
not far from two tall and solitary trees (there was a third, cut 
down, or shivered, in the battle), which stand a few yards from 
each other at a pathway's side. Beneath these he died and was 
buried. The body has since been removed to England. A small 
hollow for the present marks where it lay, but will probably 
soon be effaced; the plough has been upon it, and the grain is. 
After pointing out the different spots where Picton and other 
gallant men had perished, the guide said, "Here Major Howard 
lay: I was near him when wounded." I told him my relation- 
ship, and he seemed then still more anxious to point out the 
particular spot and circumstances. The place is one of the 
most marked in the field, from the peculiarity of the two trees 
above mentioned. I went on horseback twice over the field, 
comparing it with my recollection of similar scenes. As a 
plain, Waterloo seems marked out for the scene of some great 
action, though this may be mere imagination. I have viewed 
with attention those of Platea, Troy x Mantinea, Leuctra, 
Chaeronea, and Marathon, and the field around Mont St. Jean 
and Hougoumont appears to want little but a better cause, and 
that undefinable but impressive halo which the lapse of ages 
throws around a celebrated spot, to vie in interest with any or 
all of these, except perhaps the last mentioned. 



142 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

The Archangel's trump, not glory's, must 

awake 
Those whom they thirst for; though the 

sound of Fame 
May for a moment soothe, it cannot slake 
The fever of vain longing, and the name 
So honor'd, but assumes a stronger, bitterer 
claim. 

XXXII. 

They mourn, but smile at length; and, smil- 
ing, mourn: 

The tree will wither long before it fall ; 

The hull drives on, though mast and sail be 
torn; 

The roof -tree sinks, but moulders on the hall 

In massy hoariness; the ruin'd wall 

Stands when its wind- worn battlements are 
gone; 

The bars survive the captive they enthral; 

The day drags through though storms keep 
out the sun ; 
And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly 
live on : 

XXXIII. 

Even as a broken mirror, which the glass 
In every fragment multiplies; and makes 
A thousand images of one that was, 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 143 

The same, and still the more, the more it 
breaks ; 

And thus the heart will do which not for- 
sakes, 

Living in shatter'd guise, and still, and cold, 

And bloodless, with its sleepless sorrow 
aches, 

Yet withers on till all without is old, 
Showing no visible sign, for such things are 
untold. 

xxxiv. 
There is a very life in our despair, 
Vitality of poison, — a quick root 
Which feeds these deadly branches: for it 

were 
As nothing did we die ; but life will suit 
Itself to Sorrow's most detested fruit, 
Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore,* 
All ashes to the taste : Did man compute 
Existence by enjoyment and count o'er 
Such hours 'gainst years of life, — say, would 
he name threescore? 

xxxv. 
The Psalmist number'd out the years of 
man: 

* The (fabled) apples on the brink of the lake Asphaltes were 
said to be fair without, and within ashes. Vide Tacitus, Histor. 
lib. v. 7. 



144 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

They are enough ; and if thy tale be true, ' 
Thou, who didst grudge him even that fleet- 
ing span, 
More than enough, thou fatal Waterloo ! 
Millions of tongues record thee, and anew 
Their children's lips shall echo them, and 

say, 
"Here, where the sword united nations drew, 
Our countrymen were warring on that day!" 
And this is much, and all which will not pass 
away. 

XXXVI. 

There sunk the greatest, nor the worst of 
men, 

Whose spirit antithetically mixt 

One moment of the mightiest, and again 

On little objects with like firmness fixt ; 

Extreme in all things! hadst thou been be- 
twixt. 

Thy throne had still been thine, or never 
been; 

For daring made thy rise as fall : thou 
seek'st 

Even now to reassume the imperial mien, 
And shake again the world, the Thunderer of 
the scene! 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 145 

XXXVII. 

Conqueror and captive of the earth art thou! 
She trembles at thee still, and thy wild 

name 
Was ne'er more bruited in men's minds than 

now 
That thou art nothing, save the jest of 

Fame, 
Who woo'd thee once, thy vassal, and became 
The flatterer of thy fierceness, till thou wert 
A god unto thyself; nor less the same 
To the astounded kingdoms all inert, 
Who deem'd thee for a time whate'er thou 

didst assert. 

XXXVIII. 

Oh, more or less than man — in high or low 
Battling with nations, flying from the field; 
Now making monarchs' necks thy footstool, 

now 
More than thy meanest soldier taught to 

yield ; 
An empire thou couldst crush, command, 

rebuild, 
But govern not thy pettiest passion, nor, 
However deeply in men's spirits skill'd, 
Look through thine own, nor curb the lust of 

war, 
10 



146 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Nor learn that tempted Fate will leave the 
loftiest star. 

XXXIX. 

Yet well thy soul hath brook'd the turning 

tide 
With that untaught innate philosophy, 
Which, be it wisdom, coldness, or deep pride, 
Is gall and wormwood to an enemy, 
When the whole host of hatred stood hard 

by, 

To watch and mock thee shrinking, thou 

hast smiled 
With a sedate and all-enduring eye; 
When Fortune fled her spoil'd and favorite 

child, 
He stood unbow'd beneath the ills upon him 

piled. 

XL. 

Sager than in thy fortunes; for in them 
Ambition steel'd thee on too far to show 
That just habitual scorn, which could con- 
temn 
Men and their thoughts; 'twas wise to feel, 

not so 
To wear it ever on thy lip and brow, 
And spurn the instruments thou wert to use 
Till they were turn'd unto thine overthrow: 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 147 

'Tis but a worthless world to win or lose ; 
So hath it proved to thee, and all such lot who 
choose. 

XLI. 

If, like a tower upon a headland rock, 
Thou hadst been made to stand or fall alone, 
Such scorn of man had help'd to brave the 

shock ; 
But men's thoughts were the steps which 

paved thy throne, 
Their admiration thy best weapon shone ; 
The part of Philip's son was thine, not then 
(Unless aside thy purple had been thrown) 
Like stern Diogenes to mock at men; 
For sceptred cynics earth were far too wide a 

den. * 

XLII. 

But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell, 
And there hath been thy bane ; there is a fire 
And motion of the soul, which will not dwell 
In its own narrow being, but aspire 

* The great error of Napoleon, "if we have writ our annals 
true," was a continued obtrusion on mankind of his want of all 
community of feeling for or with them: perhaps more offensive 
to human vanity than the active cruelty of more trembling and 
suspicious tyranny. Such were his speeches to public assem- 
blies as well as individuals; and the single expression which he 
is said to have used on returning to Paris after the Russian 
winter had destroyed his army, rubbing his hands over a fire, 
"This is pleasanter than Moscow," would probably alienate 
more favor from his cause than the destruction and reverses 
which led to the remark. 



148 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Beyond the fitting medium of desire; 
And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore, 
Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire 
Of aught but rest; a fever at the core, 
Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore. 

XL1II. 

This makes the madmen who have made men 

mad 
By their contagion! Conquerors and Kings, 
Founders of sects and systems, to whom add 
Sophists, Bards, Statesmen, all unquiet 

things 
Which stir too strongly the soul's secret 

springs, 
And are themselves the fools to those they 

fool; 
Envied, yet how unenviable ! what stings 
Are theirs! One breast laid open were a 

school 
Which would unteach mankind the lust to 

shine or rule. 

XLIV. 

Their breath is agitation, and their life 
A storm whereon they ride to sink at last, 
And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife, 
That should their days, surviving perils past, 
Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 149 

With sorrow and supineness, and so die ; 
Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste 
With its own flickering, or a sword laid by, 
Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously. 

XLV. 

He who ascends to mountain-tops shall find 
The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and 

snow; 
He who surpasses or subdues mankind, 
Must look down on the hate of those below, 
Though high above the sun of glory glow, 
And far beneath the earth and ocean spread, 
Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow 
Contending tempests on his naked head, 
And thus reward the toils which to those sum- 
mits led. 

XLVI. 

Away with these! true Wisdom's world will 

be 
Within its own creation, or in thine, 
Maternal Nature! for who teems like thee, 
Thus on the banks of thy majestic Rhine? 
There Harold gazes on a work divine, 
A blending of all beauties; streams and 

dells, 
Fruit, foliage, crag, wood, corn-field, moun- 
tain, vine, 



150 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

And chieness castles breathing stern fare- 
wells 
From gray but leafy walls, where Ruin greenly 
dwells. 

XLVII. 

And there they stand, as stands a lofty mind, 
Worn, but unstooping to the baser crowd, 
All tenantless, save to the crannying wind, 
Or holding dark communion with the cloud. 
There was a day when they were young and 

proud, 
Banners on high, and battles pass'd below; 
But they who fought are in a bloody shroud, 
And those which waved are shredless dust 

ere now, 
And the bleak battlements shall bear no future 

blow. 

XLVIII. 

Beneath those battlements, within those 

walls, 
Power dwelt amidst her passions ; in proud 

state 
Each robber chief upheld his armed halls, 
Doing his evil will, nor less elate 
Than mightier heroes of a longer date. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 151 

What want these outlaw conquerors should 

have * 
But History's purchased page to call them 

great? 
A wider space, an ornamented grave? 
Their hopes were not less warm, their souls 

were full as brave. 

XLIX. 

In their baronial feuds and single fields, 
What deeds of prowess unrecorded died ! 
And Love, which lent a blazon to their 

shields, 
With emblems well devised by amorous 

pride, 
Through all the mail of iron hearts would 

glide ; 
But still their flame was fierceness, and drew 

on. 
Keen contest and destruction near allied, 
And many a tower for some fair mischief 

won, 
Saw the discolor'd Rhine beneath its ruin run. 

L. 

But Thou, exalting and abounding river! 
Making thy waves a blessing as they flow 

* What wants that knave that a king should have?" was 
King James's question on meeting Johnny Armstrong and his 
followers in'full accoutrements.— See the Ballad. 



152 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Through banks whose beauty would endure 

forever 
Could man but leave thy bright creation so, 
Nor its fair promise from the surface mow 
With the sharp scythe of conflict, — then to 

see 
Thy valley of sweet waters, were to know 
Earth paved like Heaven; and to seem such 

to me 
Even now what wants thy stream? — that it 

should Lethe be. 

LI. 

A thousand battles have assail'd thy banks, 
But these and half their fame have pass'd 

away, 
And Slaughter heap'd on high his weltering 

ranks : 
Their very graves are gone, and what are 

they? 
Thy tide wash'd down the blood of yester- 
day. 
And all was stainless, and on thy clear stream 
Glass'd with its dancing light the sunny 

ray; 
But o'er the blacken'd memory's blighting 

dream 
Thy waves would vainly roll, all sweeping as 

they seem. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 153 

LII. 

Thus Harold inly said, and pass'd along, 
Yet not insensible to all which here 
Awoke the jocund birds to early song 
In glens which might have made even exile 

dear: 
Though on his brow were graven lines 

austere, 
And tranquil sternness which had ta'en the 

place 
Of feelings fiercer far but less severe. 
Joy was not always absent from his face, 
But o'er it in such scenes would steal with 

transient trace. 

LIII. 

Nor was all love shut from him, though his 
days 

Of passion had consumed themselves to dust. 

It is in vain that we would coldly gaze 

On such as smile upon us; the heart must 

Leap kindly back to kindness, though dis- 
gust 

Hath wean'd it from all worldlings: thus he 
felt, 

For there was soft remembrance, and sweet 
trust 



154 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

In one fond breast, to which his own would 
melt, 
And in its tenderer hour on that his bosom 
dwelt. 

LIV. 

And he had learn'd to love, — I know not 

why, 
For this in such as him seems strange of 

mood, — 
The helpless looks of blooming infancy, 
Even in its earliest nurture ; what subdued, 
To change like this, a mind so far imbued 
With scorn of man, it little boots to know; 
But thus it was; and though in solitude 
Small power the nipp'd affections have to 

grow, 
In him this glow'd when all beside had ceased 

to glow. 

LV. 

And there was one soft breast, as hath been 

said, 
Which unto his was bound by stronger ties 
Than the church links withal; and, though 

unwed, 
That love was pure, and, far above disguise, 
Had stood the test of mortal enmities 
Still undivided, and cemented more 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 155 

By peril, dreaded most in female eyes; 
But this was firm, and from a foreign shore; 
Well to that heart might his these absent greet- 
ings pour ! 

The castled crag of Drachenfels * 
Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine, 
Whose breast of waters broadly swells 
Between the banks which bear the vine, 
And hills all rich with blossom'd trees, 
And fields which promise corn and wine, 
And scatter'd cities crowning these, 
Whose far white walls along them shine, 
Have strew' d a scene, which I should see 
With double joy were thou with me ! 
And peasant girls, with deep-blue eyes, 
And hands which offer early flowers, 
Walk smiling o'er this paradise; 
Above, the frequent feudal towers 
Through green leaves lift their walls of 

gray, 
And many a rock which steeply lowers, 
And noble arch in proud decay, 

* The castle of Drachenfels stands on the highest summit of 
"The Seven Mountains," over the Rhine banks, it is in ruins, 
and connected with some singular traditions. It is the first in 
view on the road from Bonn, but on the opposite side of the 
river. On this bank, nearly facing it, are the remains of an- 
other, called the Jew's Castle, and a large cross commemorative 
of the murder of a chief by his brother. The number of castles 
and cities along the course of the Rhine on both sides is very 
great, and their situations remarkably beautiful. 



156 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Look o'er this vale of vintage bowers; 

But one thing want these banks of Rhine, — 

Thy gentle hand to clasp in mine ! 

I send the lilies given to me ; 
Though long before thy hand they touch, 
I know that they must wither'd be, 
But yet reject them not as such; 
For I have cherish' d them as dear, 
Because they yet may meet thine eye, 
And guide thy soul to mine even here. 
When thou behold'st them drooping nigh, 
And know'st them gathered by the Rhine, 
And ot'fer'd from my heart to thine! 

The river nobly foams and flows, 
The charm of this enchanted ground, 
And all its thousand turns disclose 
Some fresher beauty varying round; 
The haughtiest breast its wish might bound 
Through life to dwell delighted here; 
Nor could on earth a spot be found 
To nature and to me so dear. 
Could thy dear eyes in following mine 
Still sweeten more these banks of Rhine! 

LVI. 

By Coblentz, on a rise of gentle ground, 
There is a small and simple pyramid, 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 157 

Crowning the summit of the verdant mound; 
Beneath its base are heroes' ashes hid, 
Oar enemy's, — but let not that forbid 
Honor to Marceau! o'er whose early tomb 
Tears, big tears, gush'd from the rough sol- 
dier's lid, 
Lamenting and yet envying such a doom, 
Falling for France, whose rights he battled to 
resume. 

LVII. 

Brief, brave, and glorious was his young 

career, — 
His mourners were two hosts, his friends 

and foes; 
And fitly may the stranger lingering here 
Pray for his gallant spirit's bright repose; 
For he was Freedom's champion, one of 

those, 
The few in number, who had not o'erstept 
The charter to chastise which she bestows 
On such as wield her weapons ; he had kept 
The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er 

him wept.* 

* The monument of the young: and lamented General Mar- 
ceau (killed by a rifle-ball at Alterkirchen on the last day of the 
fourth year of the French Republic) still remains as described. 
The inscription on his monument are rather too long, and not 
required— his name was enough. France adored, and her ene- 
mies admired; both wept over him. His funeral was attended 
by the generals and detachments from both armies. In the 
same grave General Hoche is interred, a gallant man also in 



158 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

LVIII. 

Here Ehrenbreitstein, * with her shatter'd 

wall 
Black with the miner's blast, upon her height 
Yet shows of what she was, when shell and 

ball 
Rebounding idly on her strength did light; 
A tower of victory! from whence the flight 
Of baffled foes was watch'd along the plain: 
But Peace destroy'd what War could never 

blight, 
And laid those proud roofs bare to Summer's 

rain — 
On which the iron shower for years had poured 

in vain. 

every sense of the word; but though he distinguished* himself 
greatly in battle, he had not the good fortune to die there; his 

death was attended by suspicions of poison. A separate monu- 
ment ( not over his body, which is buried by Mareeau's I 18 raised 
for him near Andernach, opposite to which one of his most mem- 
orable exploits was performed, in throwing a bridge to an 
island on the Rhine. The shape and style are different from that 
of Mart eau'8 and the inscription more simple and pleasing: 
"The Army of the Sambre and Mense to its Commander-in- 
Chief, Hoc'he." This is all, and as it should be. Hoche was 
esteemed among the first of France's earlier generals, before 
Bonaparte monopolized her triumphs. He was the destined 
commander of the invading army of Ireland. 

* Khrenbreitstein, i. e., "the broad stone of honor," one of 
the strongest fortresses in Europe, was dismantled and blown 
up by the French at the truce of Leoben. It has been, and could 
only'be, reduced by famine <>r treachery. It yielded to the for- 
mer, aided by surprise. After having seen the fortifications of 
Gibraltar and Malta, it did not much strike by comparison; but 
the situation is commanding. General Marceau besieged it in 
vain for some time; and I slept in a room where I was shown a 
window at which he is said to have been standing, observing 
the progress of the siege by moonlight, when a ball struck im- 
mediately below it. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 159 

LIX. 

Adieu to thee, fair Rhine ! How long, de- 
lighted, 
The stranger fain would linger on his way ! 
Thine is a scene alike where souls united 
Or lonely Contemplation thus might stray; 
And could the ceaseless vultures cease to 

prey 
On self-condemning bosoms, it were here, 
Where Nature, nor too sombre nor too gay, 
Wild but not rude, awful yet not austere, 
Is to the mellow Earth as Autumn to the year. 

LX. 

Adieu to thee again ! a vain adieu ! 

There can be no farewell to scene like thine; 

The mind is colored by thy every hue; 

And if reluctantly the eyes resign 

Their cherish'd gaze upon thee, lovely 

Rhine ! 
'Tis with the thankful glance of parting 

praise ; 
More mighty spots may rise — more glaring 

shine, 
But none unite in one attaching maze 
The brilliant, fair, and soft; — the glories of old 

days. 



160 CHILDE HAROLDS PILGRIMAGE. 
LXI. 

The negligently grand, the fruitful bloom 
Of coming ripeness, the white city's sheen, 
The rolling stream, the precipice's gloom, 
The forest's growth, and Gothic walls 

between, 
The wild rocks shaped as they had turrets 

been 
In mockery of man's art; and these withal 
A race of faces happy as the scene, 
Whose fertile bounties here extend to all, 
Still springing o'er thy banks, though Empires 

near them fall. 

LXII. 

But these recede. Above me are the Alps, 
The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls 
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps, 
And throned Eternity in icy halls 
Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls 
The avalanche — the thunderbolt of snow! 
All that expands the spirit, yet appals, 
Gather round these summits, as to show 
How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave 
vain man below. 

LXIII. 

But ere these matchless heights I dare to 
scan, 




There was a sound of revelry by night."— Page 135. 

Childo Harold's Pilgrimage. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 161 

There is a spot should not be pass'd in vain,— 
Morat! the proud, the patriot field! where 

man 
May gaze on ghastly trophies of the slain, 
Nor blush for those who conquered on that 

plain ; 
Here Burgundy bequeathed his tombless 

host, 
A bony heap, through ages to remain, 
Themselves their monument; — the Stygian 
coast 
Unsepulchred they roam'd, and shriek'd each 
wandering ghost.* 

LXIV. 

While Waterloo with Cannae's carnage vies, 
Morat and Marathon twin names shall stand; 
They were true Glory's stainless victories, 
Won by the unambitious heart and hand 
Of a proud, brotherly, and civic band, 

*The chapel is destroyed, and the pyramid of bones dimin- 
ished to a small number by the Burgundian legion in the service 
of France who anxiously effaced this record of their ancestors 
fess succesSu? invasions. A few still remain notwithstanding 
the nains taken by the Burgundians for ages (all who passed that 
way movingabone to their own country), and the less justi- 
fiable larcenies of the Swiss postilions, who carried them off to 
Sell for kn ife-handles,-a purpose for which the whiteness 
imbibed by the teaching of years had rendered them in great 

Teq ofthese relics I ventured to bring away as much as may 
have made a quarter of a hero, for which the sole excuse is, that 
if I had not, the next passer-by might have perverted the m to 
worse uses than the careful preservation which I intend for 
them. 
14 11 



162 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

AH unbought champions in no princely cause 
Of vice-entail'd Corruption ; they no land 
Doom'd to bewail the blasphemy of laws 
Making king's rights divine, by some Draconic 
clause. 

LXV. 

By a lone wall a lonelier column rears 

A gray and grief-worn aspect of old days, 

'Tis the last remnant of the wreck of years, 

And looks as with the wild bewilder'd gaze 

Of one to stone converted by amaze, 

Yet still with consciousness; and there it 

stands, 
Making a marvel that it not decays, 
When the coeval pride of human hands, 
Levell'd Aventicum, hath strew'd her subject 
lands.* 

LXVI. 

And there— oh! sweet and sacred be the 

name ! — 
Julia — the daughter, the devoted — gave 
Her youth to Heaven, her heart, beneath a 

claim 
Nearest to Heaven's, broke o'er a father's 

grave. 

♦Aventicum, near Morat, was the Roman capital of Hel- 
vetia, where Avenches now stands. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 163 

Justice is sworn 'gainst tears, and hers would 

crave 

The life she lived in, but the judge was just, 

And then she died on him she could not save. 

Their tomb was simple, and without a bust, 

And held within their urn one mind, one heart, 

one dust.* 

lxvii. 
But there are deeds which should not pass 

away, 
And names that must not wither, though the 

earth 
Forgets her empires with a just decay. 
The enslavers and the enslaved, their death 

and birth; 
The high, the mountain-majesty of worth, 
Should be, and shall, survivor of its woe, 
And from its immortality look forth 

*Tulia Alpinula, a young Aventian priestess, died soon after 
a vain endeavor to save her father, condemned to death as a 
raS by Aulus C»cina. Her epitaph was discovered many 
years ago. It is thus: "Julia Alpinula: Hie jaceo. Infeluaft 
patris infelix proles. Dete Aventia? Sacerdos. Exorare patris 
Secern non potui: Male mori in fatis ille erat Vixi annos 
XXIII " I know of no human composition so affecting as this, 
nor a 'history of deeper interest. These are the names and 
actions which ought not to perish, and to which we turn with a 
true ? and healthy tenderness, from the wretched and glittering 
detail of a confused mass of conquests and battles with which 
the mind is roused for a time to a false and feverish sympathy, 
from whence it recurs at length with all the nausea consequent 
on such intoxication. 



164 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

In the sun's face, like yonder Alpine snow,* 
Imperishably pure beyond all things below. 

LXVI1I. 

Lake Leman woos me with its crystal face, 
The mirror where the stars and mountains 

view 
The stillness of their aspect in each trace 
Its clear depth yields of their far height and 

hue : 
There is too much of man here, to look 

through 
With a fit mind the might which I behold; 
But soon in me shall Loneliness renew 
Thoughts hid, but not less cherish'd than of 

old, 
Ere mingling with the herd had penn'd me in 

their fold. 

I XIX. 

To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind; 
All are not fit with them to stir and toil, 
Nor is it discontent to keep the mind 
Deep in its fountain, lest it overboil 
In one hot throng, where we become the spoil 
Of our infection, till too late and long 

*This is written in the eye of Mont Blanc (June 3, 1816,) which 
even at this distance dazzles mine. (July 20.) — I this day 
observed for some time the distinct reflection of Mont Blanc and 
Mont Argentiere in the calm of the lake, which I was crossing 
in my boat. The distance of these mountains from their mirror 
is sixty miles. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 165 

We may deplore and struggle with the coil, 
In wretched interchange of wrong for wrong 
'Midst a contentious world, striving where 
none are strong. 

LXX. 

There, in a moment, we may plunge our 

years 
In fatal penitence, and in the blight 
Of our own soul, turn all our blood to tears. 
And color things to come with hues of 

Night; 
The race of life becomes a hopeless flight 
To those that walk in darkness: on the sea, 
The boldest steer but where their ports 

invite, 
But there are wanderers o'er Eternity 
Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd 

ne'er shall be. 

LXXI. 

Is it not better, then, to be alone, 
And love Earth only for its earthly sake? 
By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone,* 
Or the pure bosom of its nursing lake, 
Which feeds it as a mother who doth make 

*The color of the Rhone at Geneva is blue to a depth of 
tint which I have never seen equaled in water, salt or fresh, 
except in the Mediterranean and Archipelago. 



166 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

A fair but froward infant her own care, 
Kissing its cries away as these awake ; — 
Is it not better thus our lives to wear, 
Than join the crushing crowd, doom'd to inflict 
or bear? 

LXXII. 

I live not in myself, but I become 
Portion of that around me ; and to me, 
High mountains are a feeling, but the hum 
Of human cities torture: I can see 
Nothing to loathe in nature, save to be 
A link reluctant in a fleshly chain, 
Class'd among creatures, when the soul can 

flee, 
And with the sky, the peak, the heaving 
plain 
Of ocean, or the stars, mingle, and not in vain. 

LXX1II. 

And thus I am absorb'd, and this is life: 
I look upon the peopled desert past, 
As on a place of agony and strife, 
Where, for some sin, to Sorrow I was cast, 
To act and suffer, but remount at last 
With a fresh pinion ; which I felt to spring, 
Though young, yet waxing vigorous as the 

blast 
Which it would cope with, on delighted wing, 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 167 

Spurning the clay-cold bonds which round our 
being cling. 

lxxiv. 
And when, at length, the mind shall be all 

free 
From what it hates in this degraded form, 
Reft of its carnal life, save what shall be 
Existent happier in the fly and worm, — 
When elements to elements conform, 
And dust is as it should be, shall I not 
Feel all I see, less dazzling, but more warm? 
The bodiless thought? the Spirit of each 

spot? 
Of which, even now, I share at times the 

immortal lot? 

LXXV. 

Are not the mountains, waves, and skies a 

part 
Of me and of my soul, as I of them? 
Is not the love of these deep in my heart 
With a pure passion? should I not contemn 
All objects, if compared with these? and stem 
A tide of suffering, rather than forego 
Such feelings for the hard and worldly 

phlegm 
Of those whose eyes are only turned below, 



1G8 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Gazing upon the ground, with thoughts which 
dare not glow? 

LXXVI. 

But this is not my theme; and I return 
To that which is immediate, and require 
Those who find contemplation in the urn, 
To look on One whose dust was once all 

fire, 
A native of the land where I respire 
The clear air for a while — a passing guest, 
Where he became a being, — whose desire 
Was to be glorious; 'twas a foolish que>t. 
The which to gain and keep he sacrificed all 

rest. 

LXXVll. 

Here the self-torturing sophist, wild Rous- 
seau, 
The apostle <>f affliction, he who threw 
Enchantment over passion, and from woe 
Wrung overwhelming eloquence, first drew 
The breath which made him wretched; yet 

he knew 
How to make madness beautiful, and cast 
O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heavenly 

hue 
Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they 
past 






CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 169 

The eyes, which o'er them shed tears feelingly 
and fast. 

LXXVIII. 

His love was passion's essence — as a tree 
On fire by lightning; with ethereal flame 
Kindled he was, and blasted ; for to be 
Thus, and enamor'd, were in him the same. 
But his was not the love of living dame, 
Nor of the dead who rise upon our dreams, 
But of Ideal beauty, which became 
In him existence, and o'erflowing teems 
Along his burning page, distemper'd though 
it seems. 

LXXIX. 

This breathed itself to life in Julie, this 
Invested her with all that's wild and sweet; 
This hallow 'd, too, the memorable kiss* 
Which every morn his fever'd lip would 

greet, 
From hers, who but with friendship his 

would meet 



♦This refers to the account in his Confessions of his passion 
for the Comtesse d'Houdetot (the mistress of St. Lambert), and 
his long walk every morning, for the sake of the single kiss 
which was the common salutation of French acquaintance. 
Rousseau's description of his feelings on this occasion may be 
considered as the most passionate, yet not impure, description 
and expression of love that ever kindled into words; which, 
after all, must be felt from their very force to be inadequate to 
the delineation. A painting can give no sufficient idea of the 
ocean 



170 CHILDE HAROLDS PILGRIMAGE. 

But to that gentle touch, through brain and 

breast 
Flash'd the thrill'd spirit's love-devouring 

heat; 
In that absorbing sigh perchance more blest, 
Than vulgar minds may be with all they seek 

possest. 

LXXX. 

His life was one long war with self- sought 

foes, 
Or friends by him self-banish'd ; for his mind 
Had grown Suspicion's sanctuary, and chose 
For its own cruel sacrifice, the kind, 
'Gainst whom he raged with fury strange 

and blind, 
But he was frenzied, — wherefore, who may 

know? 
Since cause might be which skill could never 

find; 
But he was frenzied by disease or woe 
To that worst pitch of all, which wears a rea- 
soning show. 

LXXXI. 

For then he was inspired, and from him 

came, 
As from the Pythian' s mystic cave of yore, 
Those oracles which set the world in flame, 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 171 

Nor ceased to burn till kingdoms were no 

more: 
Did he not this for France, which lay before 
Bow'd to the inborn tyranny of years? 
Broken and trembling to the yoke she bore, 
Till by the voice of him and his compeers 
Roused up to too much wrath, which follows 
o'ergrown fears? 

LXXXII. 

They made themselves a fearful monument! 
The wreck of old opinions — things which 

grew, 
Breathed from the birth of time; the veil 

they rent, 
And what behind it lay, all earth shall view. 
But good with ill they also overthrew, 
Leaving but ruins, wherewith to rebuild 
Upon the same foundation, and renew 
Dungeons and thrones, which the same hour 

refill'd, 
As heretofore, because ambition was self- will' d. 

lxxxiii. 
But this will not endure, nor be endured! 
Mankind have felt their strength, and made 

it felt. 
They might have used it better, but, allured 
By their new vigor, sternly have they dealt 



172 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

On one another; pity ceased to melt 

With her once natural charities. But they, 

Who in oppression's darkness caved had 

dwelt, 
They were not eagles, nourish 'd with the 

day; 
What marvel then, at times, if they mistook 

their prey? 

LXXXIV. 

What deep wounds ever closed without a 

scar? 
The heart's bleed longest, and but heal to 

wear 
That which disfigures it; and they who war 
With their own hopes, and have been van- 
quish 'd, bear 
Silence, but not submission; in his lair 
Fix'd Passion holds his breath, until the hour 
Which shall atone for years; none need 

despair: 
It came, it cometh r and will come, — the 
power 
To punish or forgive — in one we shall be 
slower. 

LXXXV. 

Clear, placid, Leman! thy contrasted lake, 
With the wide world I dwelt in, is a thing 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 173 

Which warns me, with its stillness, to forsake 
Earth's troubled waters for a purer spring. 
This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing 
To waft me from distraction ; once I loved 
Torn ocean's roar, but thy soft murmuring 
Sounds sweet as if a Sister's voice reproved, 
That I with stern delights should e'er have 
been so moved. 

LXXXVI. 

It is the hush of night, and all between 
Thy margin and the mountains, dusk, yet 

clear, 
Mellow'd and mingling, yet distinctly seen, 
Save darken'd Jura, whose capt heights 

appear 
Precipitously steep ; and drawing near, 
There breathes a living fragrance from the 

shore, 
Of flowers yet fresh with childhood; on the 

ear 
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar, 
Or chirps the grasshopper one good-night carol 

more ; 

LXXXVII. 

He is an evening reveller, who makes 
His life an infancy, and sings his fill; 
At intervals, some bird from out the brakes 



174 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Starts into voice a moment, then is still. 
There seems a floating whisper on the hill r 
But that is fancy, for the starlight dews 
All silently their tears of love instil, 
Weeping themselves away, till they infuse 
Deep into Nature's breast the spirit of her 
hues. 

I XX XV in. 

Ye stars' which arc the poetry of heaven, 
If in your bright leaves we would read the 

fate 
( \i men and empires, — 'tis to be forgiven, 
That in our aspirations to be gr 
Our destinies o'erleap their mortal state. 
And claim a kindred with you; for ye are 
A beauty and a mystery, and create 
In us such love and reverence from afar. 
That fortune, fame, power, life, have named 

themselves a si 

LXXXIX. 

All heaven and earth are still — though not 

in sleep. 
But breathless, as we grow when feeling 

most; 
And silent, as we stand in thoughts too 

deep: — 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE 175 

All heaven and earth are still : From the 

high host 
Of stars, to the lull'd lake and mountain- 
coast, 
All is concenter'd in a life intense, 
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost, 
But hath a part of being, and a sense 
Of that which is of all Creator and defence. 

xc. 
Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt 
In solitude, where we are least alone; 
A truth, which, through our being then doth 

melt, 
And purifies from self: it is a tone, 
The soul and source of music, which makes 

known 
Eternal harmony, and sheds a charm, 
Like to the fabled Cytherea's zone, 
Binding all things with beauty;— 'twould 
disarm 
The spectre Death, had he substantial power 
to harm. 

xci. 
Not vainly did the early Persian make 
His altar the high places and the peak 
Of earth-o'ergazing mountains, and thus take 
A fit and unwall'd temple, there to seek 



176 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

The Spirit, in whose honor shrines are weak, 
Uprear'd of human hands. Come, and com- 
pare 
Columns and idol-dwellings, Goth or Greek, 
With nature's realms of worship, earth and 
air. 
Nor fix on fond abodes to circumscribe thy 



prayer ! 



xcn. 



The sky is changed! — and such a change! O 
night, 

And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous 

strong, 
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light 
Of a dark eye in woman ! Far along. 
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among, 
Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone 

cloud. 
But every mountain now hath found a 

tongue ; 
And 'Jura answers, through her misty 

shroud, 
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud! 

XCIII. 

And this is in the night: — Most glorious 

night! 
Thou wert not sent for. slumber! let me be 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 177 

A sharer in thy fierce and far delight — 
A portion of the tempest and of thee ! 
How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, 
And the big rain comes dancing to the earth! 
And now again 'tis black, — and now, the glee 
Of the loud hills shakes with its mountain- 
mirth, 
As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's 
birth. 

xciv. 
Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way 

between 
Heights which appear as lovers who have 

parted 
In hate, whose mining depths so intervene, 
That they can meet no more, though broken- 
hearted; 
Though in their souls, which thus each other 

thwarted, 
Love was the very root of the fond rage 
Which blighted their life's bloom, and then 

departed; 
Itself expired, but leaving them an age 
Of years all winters — war within themselves to 
wage. 

xcv. 
Now, where the quick Rhone thus hath cleft 
his way, 

12 



17>4 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

The mightiest of the storm hath ta'en his 

stand : 
For here, not one, but many, make their 

play, 
And fling their thunderbolts from hand to 

hand, 
Flashing and cast around; of all the band, 
The brightest through these parted hills hath 

fork'd 
His lightnings, as if he did understand 
That in such gaps as desolation work'd, 
There the hot shaft should blast whatever 

therein lurk'd. 

XCVI. 

Sky, mountains, river, winds, lake, light- 
nings! ye, 

With night, and clouds, and thunder, and a 
soul 

To make these felt and feeling, well may be 

Things that have made me watchful; the far 
roll 

Of your departing voices, is the knoll 

Of what in me is sleepless, — if I rest. 

But where of ye, O tempests! is the goal? 

Are ye like those within the human breast? 
Or do ye find at length, like eagles, some high 
nest> 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 179 

XCVII. 

Could I embody and unbosom now 

That which is most within me, — could I 

wreak 
My thoughts upon expression, and thus 

throw 
Soul, heart, mind, passions, feelings, strong 

or weak, 
All that I would have sought, and all I seek, 
Bear, know, feel, and yet breathe— into one 

word, 
And that one word were Lightning, I would 

speak ; 
But as it is, I live and die unheard, 
With a most voiceless thought, sheathing it as 

a sword. 

XCVIII. 

The morn is up again, the dewy morn, 
With breath all incense, and with cheek all 

bloom, 
Laughing the clouds away with playful 

scorn, 
And living as if earth contain'd no tomb,— 
And glowing into day: we may resume 
The march of our existence: and thus I, 
Still on thy shores, fair Leman! may find 

room 



180 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

And food for meditation, nor pass by 
Much, that may give us pause, if pondered 
fittingly. 

XCIX. 

Clarens! sweet Clarens! birthplace of deep 

Love ! 
Thine air is the young breath of passionate 

thought; 
Thy trees take root in love; the snows 

at* i 
The very Glaciers have his colors caught, 
And sunset into rose-hues sees them wrought 
By rays which sleep there lovingly; the 

rocks, 
The permanent -11 here of Love, who 

ight 
In them a refuge from the worldly shocks, 
Which stir and sting the soul with hope that 

WOOS, then mocks. 

c. 

Clarens! by heavenly feet thy paths are 

trod, — 
Undying Love's, who here ascends a throne 
To which the steps are mountains; where 

the god 
Is a pervading life and light, — so shown 
Not on those summits solely, nor alone 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 181 

In the still cave and forest; o'er the flower 
His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath 

blown, 
His soft and summer breath, whose tender 

power 
Passes the strength of storms in their most 

desolate hour. 

ci. 

All things are here of him ; from the black 

pines, 
Which are his shade on high, and the loud 

roar 
Of torrents, where he listeneth, to the vines 
Which slope his green path downward to the 

shore, 
Where the bow'd waters meet him, and 

adore, 
Kissing his feet with murmurs; and the 

wood, 
The covert of old trees, with trunks all hoar, 
But light leaves, young as joy, stands where 

I stood, 
Offering to him, and his, a populous solitude. 

en. 
A populous solitude of bees and birds, 
And fairy-form'd and many color'd things, 



182 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Who worship him with notes more sweet than 

words, 
And innocently open their glad wings, 
Fearless and full of life : the gush of springs, 
And fall of lofty fountains, and the bend 
Of stirring branches, and the bud which 

brings 
The swiftest thought of beauty, here extend, 
Mingling, and made by Love, unto one mighty 

end. 

cm. 

He who hath loved not, here would learn 

that lore, 
And make his heart a spirit: he who knows 
That tender mystery, will love the more, 
For this is Love's recess, where vain men's 

woes, 
And the world's waste, have driven him far 

from those, 
For 'tis his nature to advance or die; 
He stands not still, but or decays, or grows 
Into a boundless blessing, which may vie 
With the immortal lights, in its eternity! 

civ. 

'Twas not for fiction chose Rousseau this spot, 
Peopling it with affections; but he found 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 183 

It was the scene which passion must allot 
To the mind's purified beings; 'twas the 

ground 
Where early Love his Psyche's zone unbound, 
And hallow'd it with loveliness: 'tis lone, 
And wonderful, and deep, and hath a sound, 
And sense, and sight of sweetness; here the 

Rhone 
Hath spread himself a couch, the Alps have 

rear'd a throne. 

cv. 
Lausanne! and Ferney! ye have been the 

abodes 
Of names which unto you bequeath'd a 

name ; * 
Mortals, who sought and found, by dan- 
gerous roads, 
A path to perpetuity of fame: 
They were gigantic minds, and their steep 

aim 
Was, Titan-like, on daring doubts to pile 
Thoughts which should call down thunder, 

and the flame 
Of Heaven, again assail'd, if Heaven the 

while 
On man and man's research could deign do 

more than smile. 

* Voltaire and Gibbon. 



184 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

cvi. 
The one was fire and fickleness, a child 
Most mutable in wishes, but in mind 
A wit as various, — gay, grave, sage, or 

wild,— 
Historian, bard, philosopher combined: 
He multiplied himself among mankind, 
The Proteus of their talents. But his own 
Breathed most in ridicule, — which, as the 

wind. 
Blew where it listed, laying all things 

prone. — 
Now to overthrow a fool, and now to shake a 

throne. 

cvn. 

The other, deep and slow, exhausting 

thought, 
And hiving wisdom with each studious year, 
In meditation dwelt, with learning wrought, 
And shaped his weapon with an edge se- 
vere, 
Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer; 
The lord of irony, — that master-spell, 
Which stung his foes to wrath, which grew 

from fear. 
And doom'd him to the zealot's ready hell, 
Which answers to all doubts so eloquently 
well. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 185 

cvm. 

Yet, peace be with their ashes, — for by them, 
If merited, the penalty is paid; 
It is not ours to judge, far less condemn; 
The hour must come when such things shall 

be made 
Known unto all, — or hope and dread allay'd 
By slumber on one pillow, in the dust, 
Which, thus much we are sure, must lie 

decay'd; 
And when it shall revive, as is our trust, 
'Twill be to be forgiven, or suffer what is just. 

cix. 

But let me quit man's works, again to read 
His Maker's spread around me, and suspend 
This page, which from my reveries I feed, 
Until it seems prolonging without end. 
The clouds above me to the white Alps tend, 
And I must pierce them, and survey 

whate'er 
May be permitted, as my steps I bend 
To their most great and growing region, 

where 
The earth to her embrace compels the powers 

of air. 



J 86 CRUDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Italia! too, Italia* looking on thee 

Full flashes on the soul the light of ages, 

Since the fierce Carthaginian almost won 

thee? 
To the last halo of the chiefs and sages, 
Who glorify thy consecrated pages, 
Thou wert the throne and grave of empires ;- 

still, 
The fount at which the panting mind as- 
suages 
Her thirst of knowledge, quaffing there her 
fill, 
Flows from the eternal source of Rome's in»- 
perial hill. 

cxi. 

Thus far have I proceeded in a theme 
Renew'd with no kind auspices: — to feel 
We are not what we have been, and to deem; 
We are not what we s'houid be, and to steel 
The heart against itself; and to conceal,, 
With a proud caution, love, or hate, or' 

aught,— 
Passion or feeling, purpose, grief, or zeal', — 
Which is the -tyrant spirit of our thought, 
Is a stern task of soul-— No matter, — it is- 
taught. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 187 

cxn. 
And for these words, thus woven into song, 
It may be that they are a harmless wile, — 
The coloring of the scenes which fleet along, 
Which I would seize, in passing, to beguile 
My breast, or that of others, for a while. 
Fame is the thirst of youth, — but I am not 
So young as to regard men's frown or smile 
As loss or guerdon of a glorious lot; 
I stood and stand alone, — remember 'd or for- 
got. 

CXIII. 

I have not loved the world, nor the world 

me; 
I have not flatter'd its rank breath, nor 

bow'd 
To its idolatries a patient knee, — 
Nor coin'd my cheek to smiles, nor cried 

aloud 
In worship of an echo; in the crowd 
They could not deem me one of such ; I 

stood 
Among them, but not of them; in a shroud 
Of thoughts which were not their thoughts, 

and still could, 
Had I not filed * my mind, which thus itself 

subdued. 

*— "If it be thus, 
For Banquo's issue have 1 filed my mind."— Macbeth. 



188 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

CXIV. 

I have not loved the world, nor the world 

me, — 
But let us part fair foes: I do believe, 
Though I have found them not, that there 

may be 
Words which are things, — hopes which will 

not deceive, 
And virtues which are merciful, nor weave 
Snares for the failing: I would also deem 
O'er other's griefs that some sincerely grieve ; 
That two, or one, are almost what they 

seem, — 
That goodness is no name, and happiness no 

dream. 

cxv. 
My daughter! with thy name this song be- 
gun — 
My daughter! with thy name thus much 

shall end — 
I see thee not, I hear thee not, — but none 
Can be so wrapt in thee; thou art the friend 
To whom the shadows of far years extend: 
Albeit my brow thou never shouldst behold, 
My voice shall with thy future visions blend, 
And reach into thy heart, when mine is 
cold, — 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 189 

A token and a tone, even from thy father's 
mould. 

cxvi. 
To aid thy mind's development, — to watch 
Thy dawn of little joys, — to sit and see 
Almost thy very growth, — to view thee catch 
Knowledge of objects, wonders yet to thee! 
To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee, 
And print on thy soft cheek a parent's 

kiss, — 
This, it should seem, was not reserved for 

me; 
Yet this was in my nature : — As it is, 
I know not what is there., but something like 

to this. 

cxvn. 
Yet, though dull Hate as duty should be 

taught, 
I know that thou wilt love me: though my 

name 
Should be shut from thee, as a spell still 

fought 
With desolation, and a broken claim : 
Though the grave closed between us, — 'twere 

the same, 
I know that thou wilt love me; though to 

drain 



190 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

My blood from out thy being were an aim, 
And an attainment, — all would be in vain, — 
Still thou wouldst love me, still that more than 

life retain. 

cxvm. 
The child of love, — though born in bitterness 
And nurtured in convulsion. Of thy sire 
These were the elements, and thine no less. 
As yet such are around thee; but thy fire 
Shall be more temper'd, and thy hope far 

higher. 
Sweet be thy cradled slumbers! O'er the 

sea, 
And from the mountains where I now respire, 
Fain would I waft such blessing upon thee, 
As, with a sigh, I deem thou mightst have 

been to me! 



CANTO THE FOURTH. 
1818. 

TO JOHN HOBHOUSE, ESQ., A.M., F.R.S., ETC. 

Venice, January 2, 1818. 

My Dear Hobhouse:— After an interval of 
eight years between the composition of the 
first and last cantos of Childe Harold, the con- 
clusion of the poem is about to be submitted to 
the public. In parting- with so old a friend it 
is not extraordinary that I should recur to one 
still older and better, —to one who has beheld 
the birth and death of the other, and to whom 
1 am far more indebted for the social advan- 
tages of an enlightened friendship, than— 
though not ungrateful-I can, or could be, to 
Childe Harold, for any public favor reflected 
through the poem on the poet,— to one whom 
l have known long and accompanied far, whom 
I have found wakeful over my sickness and 
kind in my sorrow, glad in my prosperity and 
firm in my adversity, true in counsel and trusty 
in peril,— to a friend often tried and never 
found wanting;— to yourself. 

In so doing, I recur from fiction to truth 

and in dedicating to you, in its complete, or at 

least concluded state, a poetical work which is 

the longest, the most thoughtful and compre- 

191 



192 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

hensive of my compositions, I wish to do honor 
to myself by the record of many years' inti- 
macy' with a man of learning, of talent, of 
steadiness, and of honor. It is not for minds 
like ours to give or to receive flattery; yet the 
praises of sincerity have ever been permitted 
to the voice of friendship ; and it is not for you, 
nor even for others, but to relieve a heart 
which has not elsewhere, or lately, been so 
much accustomed to the encounter of good-will 
as to withstand the shock firmly, that I thus 
mpt to commemorate your good qualities, 
or rather the advantages which I have derived 
from their exertion. Even the recurrence of 
the date of this letter, the anniversary of the 
most unfortunate day of my past existence,* 
but which cannot poison my future while I re- 
tain the resource of your friendship, and of my 
own faculties, will henceforth have a more 
agreeable recollection for both, inasmuch as it 
will remind us of this my attempt to thank you 
for an indefatigable regard, such as few men 
have experienced, and no one could experience 
without thinking better of his species and of 
himself. 

It has been our fortune to traverse together, 
at various periods, the countries of chivalry, 
history, and fable— Spain, Greece, Asia Minor, 
and Italy; and what Athens and Constanti- 
nople were to us a few years ago. Venice and 
Rome have been more recently. The poem 
also, or the pilgrim, or both, have accompa- 

*His Marriage. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 193 

nied me from first to last; and perhaps it may 
be a pardonable vanity which induces me to 
reflect with complacency on a composition 
which in some degree connects me with the 
spot where it was produced, and the objects it 
would fain describe; and however unworthy it 
may be deemed of those magical and memor- 
able abodes, however short it may fall of our 
distant conceptions and immediate impressions, 
yet as a mark of respect for what is venerable, 
and of feeling for what is glorious, it has been 
to me a source of p 1 easure in the production, 
and I part with it with a kind of regret, which 
I hardly suspected that events could have left 
me for imaginary objects. 

With regard to the conduct of the last canto, 
there will be found less of the pilgrim than in 
any of the preceding, and that little slightly, 
if at all, separated from the author speaking in 
his own person. The fact is, that I had become 
weary of drawing a line which every one 
seemed determined not to perceive ; like the 
Chinese in Goldsmith's Citizen of the World, 
whom nobody would believe to be a Chinese, it 
was in vain that I asserted, and imagined that 
I had drawn, a distinction between the author 
and the pilgrim ; and the very anxiety to pre- 
serve this difference, and disappointment at 
finding it unavailing, so far crushed my efforts 
in the composition, that I determined to aban- 
don it altogether — and have done so. The 
opinions which have been, or may be, formed 
on that subject, are now a matter of indiffer- 
ence ; the work is to depend on itself and not 

13 



194 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. # 

on the writer; and the author, who has no re- 
sources in his own mind beyond the reputation, 
transient or permanent, which is to arise from 
his literary efforts, deserves the fate of authors. 

In the course of the following canto it was 
my intention, either in the text or in the notes, 
to have touched upon the present state of Ital- 
ian literature, and perhaps of manners. But 
the text, within the limits I proposed, I soon 
found hardly sufficient for the labyrinth of ex- 
ternal objects, and the consequent reflections; 
and for the whole of the notes, excepting a few 
of the shortest, I am indebted to yourself, and 
these were necessarily limited to the elucida- 
tion of the text. 

It is also a delicate, and no very grateful 
task, to dissert upon the literature and man- 
ners of a nation so dissimilar; and requires an 
attention and impartiality which would induce 
us — though perhaps no inattentive observers, 
nor ignorant of the language or customs of the 
people amongst whom we have recently abode 
— to distrust, or at least defer our judgment, 
and more narrowly examine our information. 
The state of literary as well as political party 
appears to run, or to have run, so high, that 
for a stranger to steer impartially between 
them is next to impossible. It may be enough, 
then, at least for my purpose, to quote from 
their own beautiful language — "Mi pare che 
in un passe tutto, poetico, che vanta la lingua 
la piu nobile ed insieme la piu dolce, tutte 
tutte le vie diverse si possono tentare, e che 
sinche la patria di Alfieri e di Monti non ha 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 195 

perduto l'antico valore, in tutte essa doverbbe 
essere la prima." Italy has great names still: 
Canova, Monti, Ugo Foscolo, Pindemonte, 
Visconti, Morelli, Cicognara, Albrizzi, Mezzo- 
phanti, Mai, Mustoxidi, Aglietti, and Vacca, 
will secure to the present generation an hon- 
orable place in most of the departments of art, 
science, and belles lettres: and in some the 
very highest. Europe — the World — has but 
one Canova. 

It has been somewhere said by Alfieri, that 
"La pianta uomo nasce piu robusta in Italia 
che in qualunque altra terra — e che gli stessi 
atroci delitti che vi si commettono ne sono una 
prova. " Without subscribing to the latter 
part of his proposition — a dangerous doctrine, 
the truth of which may be disputed on better 
grounds, namely, that the Italians are in no 
respect more ferocious than their neighbors — 
that man must be willfully blind, or ignorantly 
heedless, who is not struck with the extraordi- 
nary capacity of this people, or, if such a word 
be admissible, their capabilities, the facility 
of their acquisitions, the rapidity of their con- 
ceptions, the fire of their genius, their sense of 
beauty, and amidst all the disadvantages of 
repeated revolutions, the desolation of battles, 
and the despair of ages, their still unquenched 
"longing after immortality" — the immortality 
of independence. And when we ourselves, in 
riding round the walls of Rome, heard the 
simple lament of the laborers' chorus, "Roma! 
Roma! Roma? Roma non e piu come era 
prima," it was difficult not to contrast this mel- 



196 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

ancholy dirge with the bacchanal roar of the 
songs of exultation still yelled from the Lon- 
don taverns, over the carnage of Mont St. 
Jean, and the betrayal of Genoa, of Italy, of 
France, and of the world, by men whose con- 
duct you yourself have exposed in a work wor- 
thy of the better days of our history. For 
me, — 

"Non movero mai corda 
Ove la turba di sue ciance assorda. " 

What Italy has gained by the late transfer 
of nations, it were useless for Englishmen to 
inquire, till it becomes ascertained that Eng- 
land has acquired something more than a per- 
manent army and a suspended Habeas Corpus; 
it is enough for them to look at home. For 
what they have done abroad, and especially in 
the south, "verily they will have their reward, 
and at no very distant period." 

Wishing you, my dear Hobhouse, a safe and 
agreeable return to that country whose real 
welfare can be dearer to none than to yourself, 
I dedicate to you this poem in its completed 
state; and repeat once more how truly I am 
ever, your obliged and affectionate friend. 

Byron. 



I stood in Venice, on the Bridge ot Sighs; 
A palace and a prison on each hand: 
I saw from out the wave her structures rise 
As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand: 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 197 

A thousand years their cloudy wings expand 
Around me, and a dying Glory smiles 
O'er the far times when many a subject land 
Looked to the winged Lion's marble piles, 
Where Venice sate in state, throned on her 
hundred isles! 

ii. 
She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean, 
Rising with her tiara of proud towers 
At airy distance, with majestic motion, 
A ruler of the waters and their powers; 
And such she was; her daughters had their 

dowers 
From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless 

East 
Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling 

showers. 
In purple was she robed, and of her feast 
Monarchs partook, and deem'd their dignity 

increased. 

in. 
In Venice, Tasso's echoes are no more, 
And silent rows the songless gondolier; 
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore, 
And music meets not always now the ear: 
Those days are gone — but Beauty still is 
here. 



198 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

States fall, arts fade — but Nature doth not 

die. 
Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear, 
The pleasant place of all festivity, 
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy! 

IV. 

Rut unto us she hath a spell beyond 
Her name in story, and her long array 
( If mighty shadows, whose dim forms des- 
pond 
Above the Dogeless city's vanish'd sway. 
Ours is a trophy which will not decay 
With the Rial to; Shylock and the Moor, 
And Pierre, cannot be swept or worn away — 
The keystones of the arch! though all were 
o\ 
For us repeopled were the solitary shore. 

v. 
The beings of the mind are not of clay; 
Essentially immortal, they create 
And multiply in us a brighter ray 
And more beloved existence; that which 

Fate 
Prohibits to dull life, in this our state 
Of mortal bondage, by these spirits supplied 
First exiles, then replaces what we hate; 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 199 

Watering the heart whose early flowers have 
died, 
And with a fresher growth replenishing the 
void. 

VI. 

Such is the refuge of our youth and age, 
The first from Hope, the last from Vacancy ; 
And this worn feeling peoples many a page, 
And, may be, that which grows beneath mine 

eye: 
Yet there are things whose strong reality 
Outshines our fairy-land, in shape and hues 
More beautiful than our fantastic sky, 
And the strange constellations which the 
Muse 
O'er her wild universe is skilful to diffuse: 

VII. 

I saw or dream'd of such,— but let them go— 
They came like truth, and disappear'd like 

dreams ; 
And whatsoe'er they were — are now but so; 
I could replace them if I would : still teems 
My mind with many a form which aptly 

seems 
Such as I sought for, and at moments found ; 
Let these too go— for waking reason deems 
Such overweening phantasies unsound 



200 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

And other voices speak, and other sights sur- 
round. 

VIII. 

I've taught me other tongues, and in strange 

eyes 
Have made me not a stranger; to the mind 
Which is itself, no changes bring surprise; 
Nor is it harsh to make nor hard to find 
A country with — ay, or without mankind; 
Yet was I born where men are proud to be, 
Not without cause ; and should I leave behind 
The inviolate island of the sage and free. 
And seek me out a home by a remoter sea 

IX. 

Perhaps I loved it well: and should 1 lay 
My ashes in a soil which is not mine, 
My spirit shall resume it — if we may 
Unbodied choose a sanctuary. I twine 
My hopes of being re member 'd in my line 
With my land's language ; if too fond and far 
These aspirations in their scope incline, — 
If my fame should be, as my fortunes are, 
Of hasty growth and blight, and dull Oblivion 
bar 

x. 

My name from out the temple where the 
dead 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 201 

Are honor'd by the nations— let it be — 
And light the laurels on a loftier head' 
And be the Spartan's epitaph on me — 
' ' Sparta hath many a worthier son than he. "* 
Meantime I seek no sympathies, nor need; 
The thorns which I have reap'd are of the 

tree 
I planted, — they have torn me, and I bleed: 
I should have known what fruit would spring 
from such a seed. 

XI. 

The spouseless Adriatic mourns her lord; 
And, annual marriage now no more renew'd, 
The Bucentaur lies rotting unrestored, 
Neglected garment of her widowhood! 
St. Mark yet sees his lion where he stood 
Stand, but in mockery of his wither'd power, 
Over the proud Place where an Emperor 

sued, 
And monarchs gazed and envied in the hour 
When Venice was a queen with an unequal'd 

dower. 

XII. 

The Suabian sued, and now the Austrian 
reigns — 



* The answer of the mother of Brasidas, the Lacedaemonian 
general, to the strangers who praised the memory of her son. 



202 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

An Emperor tramples where an Emperor 
knelt; 

Kingdoms are shrunk to provinces, and 
chains 

Clank over sceptred cities; nations melt 

From power's high pinnacle, when they have 
felt 

The sunshine for a while, and downward go 

Like lauwine loosened from the mountain's 
belt: 

Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo! 
Th' octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquer- 
ing foe. 

XIII. 

Before St. Mark still glow his steeds of 

brass, 
Their gilded collars glittering in the sun; 
But is not Doria's menace come to pass? 
Are they not bridled:* — Venice, lost and won, 
Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done, 
Sinks, like a sea- weed, into whence she rose! 
Better be whelm 'd beneath the waves, and 

shun, 
Even in Destruction's depth, her foreign 

foes, 
From whom submission wrings an infamous 

repose. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 203 

xiv. 
In youth she was all glory, — a new Tyre, — 
Her very byword sprung from victory, 
The "Planter of the Lion,"* which through 

fire 
And blood she bore o'er subject earth and 

sea; 
Though making many slaves, herself still 

free, 
And Europe's bulwark 'gainst the Ottomite: 
Witness Troy's rival, Candia! Vouch it, ye 
Immoral waves that saw Lepanto's fight! 
For ye are names no time nor tyranny can 

blight. 

xv. 

Statues of glass — all shiver'd — the long file 
Of her dead Doges are declined to dust; 
But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptu- 
ous pile 
Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust; 
Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust, 
Have yielded to the stranger: empty halls, 
Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as 

must 
Too oft remind her who and what enthrals, 

* That is the Lion of St. Mark, the standard of the republic, 
which is the origin of the word Pantaloon— Piantaleone, Panta- 
leon, Pantaloon. 



204 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice's 
lovely walls. 

XVI. 

When Athens' armies fell at Syracuse, 
And fetter'd thousands bore the yoke of war. 
Redemption rose up in the Attic Muse 
II or voice tl ' ransom from afar: 

See' y chant the tragic hymn, the car 

Of the o'ermaster'd victor stnps, the reins 

11 from his hand — th imitar 

Starts : belt — he rends his captive's 

chains, 
And bids him thank the bard for freedom and 

XVII. 

Thus, Venice, if no stronger claim were 

thine, 
Were ail thy proud historic deeds forgot, 
Thy coral memory of the Bard divine, 
Thy love of Tasso, should have cut the knot 
Which ties thee to thy tyrants; and thy lot 
Is shameful to the nations, — most of all, 
Albion! to thee; the Ocean Queen should not 
Abandon Ocean's children; in the fall 
Of Venice think of thine, despite thy watery 

wall. 

* The story is told in Plutarch's Life of Nicias. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 205 

XVIII. 

I loved her from my boyhood : she to me 

Was as a fairy city of the heart, 

Rising like water-columns from the sea, 

Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart; 

And Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shakspeare's 

art,* 
Had stamp'd her image in me, and even so, 
Although I found her thus, we did not part, 
Perchance even dearer in her day of woe, 
Than when she was a boast, a marvel, and a 

show. 

XIX. 

I can repeople with the past — and of 
The present there is still for eye and thought, 
And meditation chasten'd down, enough; 
And more, it may be, than I hoped or sought; 
And of the happiest moments which were 

wrought 
Within the web of my existence, some 
From thee, fair Venice! have their colors 

caught: 
There are some feelings Time can not be- 
numb, 
Nor torture shake, or mine would now be cold 
and dumb. 

♦Venice Preserved: Mysteries of Udolpho- The Ghost-Seer, 
or Armenian: The Merchant of Venice. Othello. 



206 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

xx. 

But from their nature will the tannen grow* 
Loftiest on loftiest and least shelter'd rocks, 
Rooted in barrenness, where nought below 
Of soil supports them 'gainst the Alpine 

shocks 
Of eddying storms; yet springs the trunk, 

and mocks 
The howling tempest, till its height and 

frame 
Are worthy of the mountains from whose 

blocks 
: bleak, gray granite, into life it came, 
And grew a giant tree; — the mind may grow 

the same. 

XXI. 

Existen.ee may be borne, and the deep root 
< >:' life and sufferance makes its firm abode 
In bare and desolate bosoms: mute 
The camel labors with the heaviest load, 

I the wolf dies in silen Not ' estow'd 

In vain should such examples be; if they. 
Things of ignoble or of savage mood, 
Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay 
May temper it to bear, — it is but for a day. 

* Tannea is the plural of tanne, a species of fir peculiar to the 
Alps, which only thrives in very rocky parts, where scarcely soil 
sufficient for its nourishment can be found. On these spots it 
grows to a greater height than any other mountain tree. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 207 

XXII. 

All suffering doth destroy, or is destroy'd, 
Even by the sufferer; and, in each event, 
Ends: — Some, with hope replenish'd and 

rebuoy'd, 
Return to whence they came — with like 

intent, 
And weave their web again; some, bow'd 

and bent, 
Wax gray and ghastly, withering ere their 

time, 
And perish with the reed on which they 

leant; 
Some seek devotion, toil, war, good or crime, 
According as their souls were form'd to sink 

or climb. 

XXIII. 

But ever and anon of griefs subdued 
There comes a token like a scorpion's sting, 
Scarce seen, but with fresh bitterness im- 
bued: 
And slight withal may be the things which 

bring 
Back on the heart the weight which it would 

fling 
Aside for ever: it may be a sound — 
A tone of music — summer's eve — or spring — 



208 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

A flower — the wind — the ocean — which shall 
wound, 
Striking- the electric chain wherewith we are 
darkly bound: 

XXIV. 

And how and why we know not, nor can 

trace 
Home to its cloud this lightning of the mind, 

' feel the shock renew "d, nor can efface 
The blight and blackening which it leaves 

behind, 
Which out of things familiar, undesign'd, 
When least we deem of such, calls up to view 
The spectres whom no exorcism can bind, — 
The cold — the changed — perchance the dead 

— anew, 
The mourn'd, the loved, the lost — too many! — 
yet how few! 

XXV. 

But my soul wanders: I demand it back 
To meditate amongst decay, and stand 
A ruin amidst ruins; there to track 
Fallen states and buried greatness, o'er a 

land 
Which was the mightiest in its old command, 
And is the loveliest, and must ever be 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 209 

The master-mould of Nature's heavenly- 
hand, 
Wherein were cast the heroic and the free, 
The beautiful, the brave — the lords of earth 
and sea. 

XXVI. 

The commonwealth of kings, the men of 

Rome! 
And even since, and now, fair Italy! 
Thou art the garden of the world, the home 
Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree; 
Even in thy desert, what is like to thee? 
Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste 
More rich than other climes' fertility; 
Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced 
With an immaculate charm which cannot be 
defaced. 

XXVII. 

The moon is up, and yet it is not night — 
Sunset divides the sky with her — a sea 
Of glory streams along the Alpine height 
Of blue Friuli's mountains: Heaven is free 
From clouds, but of all colors seems to be — 
Melted to one vast Iris of the West, 
Where the Day joins the past Eternity; 
While, on the other hand, meek Dian's crest 
u 



210 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Floats through the azure air — an island of the 
blest! 

XXVIII. 

A single star is at her side, and reigns 
With her o'er half the lovely heaven; but 

still 
Yon sunny sea heaves brightly, and remains 
Roll'd o'er the peak of the far Rhuetian hill, 
As Day and Night contending were, until 
Nature reclaim 'd her order: — gently flows 
The deep-dyed Brenta, where their hues instil 
The odorous purple of a new-born rose, 
Which streams upon her stream, and glass'd 

within it glows. 

XXIX. 

Fill'd with the face of heaven, which, from 

afar, 
Comes down upon the waters; all its hues, 
From the rich sunset to the rising star, 
Their magical variety diffuse: 
And now they change ; a paler shadow strews 
Its mantle o'er the mountains, parting day 
Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang 

imbues 
With a new color as it gasps away, 
The last still loveliest, till — 'tis gone — and all 

is gray. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 211 

xxx. 
There is a tomb in Arqua; — rear'd in air, 
Pillar'd in their sarcophagus, repose 
The bones of Laura's lover: here repair 
Many familiar with his well-sung woes, 
The pilgrims of his genius. He arose 
To raise a language, and his land reclaim 
From the dull yoke of her barbaric foes: 
Watering the tree which bears his lady's 

name 
With his melodious tears, he gave himself to 

fame. 

XXXI. 

They keep his dust in Arqua, where he died; 
The mountain-village where his latter days 
Went down the vale of years; and 'tis their 

pride — 
An honest pride — and let it be their praise. 
To offer to the passing stranger's gaze 
His mansion and his sepulchre; both plain 
And venerably simple, such as raise 
A feeling more accordant with his strain, 
Than if a pyramid form'd his monumental fane. 

XXXII. 

And the soft quiet hamlet where he dwelt 
Is one of that complexion which seems made 
For those who their mortality have felt, 



212 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

And sought a rei a their hopes de 

In the deep uml - shade, 

• ■ 
( )f busy cil play'd. 

the ray 

3 ht sun can n -at holi 

X X X I ! I . 

the mountain and 

I shining in the brawling whereby, 

tering 
hours 

h a calm languor, which, though to the 
eye 

. hath it 

'Tis'solitude si ich us h lie; 

It hath no flatterers; • m give 

No hoi: alone — man with his God must 

rve; 

XXX IV. 

Or, it may be, with demons, who impair 
The strength of better thoughts, and seek 

their prey 
In melancholy bosoms, such as were 

moody texture from their earliest day, 
And loved to dwell in darkness and dismay, 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 213 

Deeming themselves predestined to a doom 
Which is not of the pangs that pass away; 
Making the sun like blood, the earth a tomb. 
The tomb a hell, and hell itself a murkier 
gloom. 

xxxv. 
Ferrara! in thy wide and grass-grown 

streets, 
Whose symmetry was not for solitude, 
There seems as 'twere a curse upon the seats 
Of former sovereigns, and the antique brood 
Of Este, which for many an age made good 
Its strength within thy walls, and was of yore 
Patron or tyrant, as the changing mood 
Of petty power impell'd, of those who wore 
The wreath which Dante's brow alone had 

worn before. 

xxxvi. 
And Tasso is their glory and their shame. 
Hark to his strain ! and then survey his cell! 
And see how dearly earn'd Torquato's fame, 
And where Alfonso bade his poet dwell. 
The miserable despot could not quell 
The insulted mind he sought to quench, and 

blend 
With the surrounding maniacs, in the hell 
Where he had plunged it. Glory without end 



214 CH1LDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Scatter'd the clouds away— and on that name 
attend. 

xxxvn. 
The tears and praises of all time, while thine 
Would rot in its oblivion — in the sink 
of worthless dust, which from thy boasted 

line 
Is shaken into nothing; but the link 
Thou formest in 1ms fortunes bids us think 
< >:" thy poor malice, naming thee with scorn — 
AH how thy ducal pageants shrink 

From thee' if in another station born, 

be the I him thou mad'st to 

mourn. 

XXXVIII. 

Thou ' form'd to eat, and '.. and 

Even as the that thou 

lendid trough, and wider sty; 

He! with a glory round his furrow'd brow, 

Dated then, and 
In face of all fa -can quire. 

And Boileau, whose rash envy could allow 

X strain which shamed his country's creak- 
ing lyre, 
That whetstone of the teeth— monotony in 
wire! 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 215 

XXXIX. 

Peace to Torquato's injured shade! 'twas his 
In life and death to be the mark where Wrong 
Aim'd with her poison'd arrows — but to miss. 
Oh, victor unsurpass'd in modern song! 
Each year brings forth its millions; but how 

long 
The tide of generations shall roll on, 
And not the whole combined and countless 

throng 
Compose a mind like thine> Though all in 

one 
Condensed their scatter' d rays, they would not 

form a sun. 

XL. 

Great as thou art, yet parallel'd by those, 
Thy countrymen, before thee born to shine, 
The Bards of Hell and Chivalry: first rose 
The Tuscan father's comedy divine, 
Then, not unequal to the Florentine, 
The southern Scott, the minstrel who call'd 

forth 
A new creation with his magic line, 
And, like the Ariosto of the North, 
Sang lady-love and war, romance and knightly 

worth. 



216 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

XLI. 

The lightning rent from Ariosto's bust 
The iron crown of laurel's mimck'd leaves; 
Nor was the ominous element unjust. 
For the true laurel- wreath which Glory 

weaves 
Is of the tree no bolt of thunder cleaves, 
And the false semblance but disgraced his 

brow : 
Yet still, if fondly Superstition grieves. 
Know that the lightning sanctifies below 
Whate'er it strikes; — yon head is doubly sacred 

now. 

XLI I. 

Italia! O Italia! thou who hast 
The fatal gift of beauty, which became 
A funeral dower of present woes and past, 
On thy sweet brow is sorrow ploughed by 

shame, 
And annals graved in characters of flame. 
O God! that thou wert in thy nakedness 
Less lovely or more powerful, and couldst 

claim 
Thy right, and awe the robbers back, who 

press 
To shed thy blood, and drink the tears of thy 

distress; 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 217 

XLIII. 

Then mightst thou more appal; or, less 

desired, 
Be homely and be peaceful, undeplored 
For thy destructive charms; then, still 

un tired, 
Would not be seen the armed torrents pour'd 
Down the deep Alps; nor would the hostile 

horde 
Of many-nation'd spoilers from the Po 
Quaff blood and water; nor the stranger's 

sword 
Be thy sad weapon of defence, and so, 
Victor or vanquish'd, thou the slave of friend 

or foe. 

XLIV. 

Wandering in youth I traced the path of 

him, 
The Roman friend of Rome's least mortal 

mind, 
The friend of Tully: as my bark did skim 
The bright blue waters with a fanning wind, 
Came Megara before me, and behind 
^Egina lay, Piraeus on the right, 
And Corinth on the left; I lay reclined 
Along the prow, and saw all these unite 
In ruin, even as he had seen the desolate sight ; 



218 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

XLV. 

For time hath not rebuilt them, but uprear'd 
Barbaric dwellings on their shatter'd site, 
Which only make more mourn'd and more 

endear'd 
The few last rays of their far-scatter'd light, 
And the crush'd relics of their vanish'd 

might. 
The Roman saw these tombs in his own age, 
These sepulchres of cities, which excite 
Sad wonder, and his yet surviving page 
The moral lesson bears, drawn from such pil- 
grimage. 

XLVI. 

That page is now before me, and on mine 

His country's ruin added to the mass 

Of perish'd states he mourn'd in their 

decline, 
And I in desolation ; all that was 
Of then destruction is; and now, alas! 
Rome — Rome imperial, bows her to the 

storm, 
In the same dust and blackness, and we pass 
The skeleton of her Titanic form, 
Wrecks of another world, whose ashes still are 

warm. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 219 
XL VII. 

Yet, Italy! through every other land 

Thy wrongs should ring, and shall, from side 

to side; 
Mother of Arts! as once of Arms; thy hand 
Was then our guardian, and is still our guide ; 
Parent of our Religion ! whom the wide 
Nations have knelt to for the keys of heaven! 
Europe, repentant of her parricide, 
Shall yet redeem thee, and, all backward 

driven, 
Roll the barbarian tide, and sue to be forgiven. 

XL VIII. 

But Arno wins us to the fair white walls, 
Where the Etrurian Athens claims and keeps 
A softer feeling for her fairy halls. 
Girt by her theatre of hills, she reaps 
Her corn, and wine, and oil, and Plenty leaps 
To laughing life, with her redundant horn. 
Along the banks where smiling Arno sweeps, 
Was modern Luxury of Commerce born, 
And buried Learning rose, redeem 'd to a new 
morn. 

XLIX. 

There, too, the Goddess loves in stone, and 

fills 
The air around with beauty ; we inhale 



220 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

The ambrosial aspect which, beheld, instils 
Part of its immortality; the veil 
Of heaven is half undrawn ; within the pale 
We stand, and in that form and face behold 
What Mind can make, when Nature's self 

would fail; 
And to the fond idolaters of old 
Envy the innate Hash which such a soul could 
mould : 

L. 

We gaze and turn away, and know not where, 
Dazzled and drunk with beauty till the heart 
Reels with its fulness ; there — for ever there — 
Chain 'd to the chariot of triumphal Art, 
We stand as captives, and would not depart. 
Away! — there need no words, nor terms 

precise, 
The paltry jargon of the marble mart, 
Where Pedantry gulls Folly — we have eyes: 
Blood, pulse, and breast, confirm the Dardan 
Shepherd's prize. 

LI. 

Appear'dst thou not to Paris in this guise? 
Or to more deeply blest Anchises? or, 
In all thy perfect goddess-ship, when lies 
Before thee thy own vanquish'd Lord of 
War? 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 221 

And gazing in thy face as toward a star, 
Laid on thy lap, his eyes to thee upturn, 
Feeding on thy sweet cheek ! while thy lips 

are 
With lava kisses melting while they burn, 
Shower'd on his eyelids, brow, and mouth, as 
from an urn! 

LII. 

Glowing, and circumfused in speechless love, 
Their full divinity inadequate 
That feeling to express, or to improve, 
The gods become as mortals, and man's fate 
Has moments like their brightest! but the 

weight 
Of earth recoils upon us;— let it go! 
We can recall such visions, and create 
From what has been, or might be, things 

which grow, 
Into thy statue's form, and look like gods 

below. 

LIU. 

I leave to learned fingers, and wise hands, 
The artist and his ape, to teach and tell 
How well his connoisseurship understands 
The graceful bend, and the voluptuous swell: 
Let these describe the undescribable ; 
I would not their vile breath should crisp the 
stream 



222 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Wherein that image shall for ever dwell; 
The unruffled mirror of the loveliest dream 
That ever left the sky on the deep soul to beam. 

L1V. 

In Santa Croce's holy precincts lie 

Ashes which make it holier, dust, which is 

Even in itself an immortality, 

Though there were nothing save the past, 

and this 
The particle of those sublimities 
Which have relapsed to chaos: — here repose 
An. Alfieri's bones, and his. 

The starry Galileo, with his woes; 
Here Machiavelli's earth returned to whence it 

rose. 

LV. 

These are four minds, which, like the ele- 
ments, 
Might furnish forth creation: — Italy! 
Time, which hath wrong' d thee with ten 

thousand rents 
Of thine imperial garment, shall deny, 
And hath denied, to every other sky, 
Spirits which soar from ruin : — they decay 
Is still impregnate with divinity, 
Which gilds it with revivifying ray; 
Such as the great of yore, Canova is to-day. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 223 



LVI. 



But where repose the all Etruscan three- 
Dante, and Petrarch, and, scarce less than 

they, 
The Bard of Prose, creative spirit! he 
Of the Hundred Tales of love— where did 

they lay 
Their bones, distinguish 'd from our common 

clay 
In death as life? Are they resolved to dust, 
And have their country's marbles nought to 

say? 
Could not her quarries furnish forth one bust? 
Did they not to her breast their filial earth 

entrust? 

LVII. 

Ungrateful Florence ! Dante sleeps afar, 
Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore ; 
Thy factions, in their worse than civil war, 
Proscribed the bard whose name for evermore 
Their children's children would in vain adore 
With the remorse of ages ; and the crown 
Which Petrarch's laureate brow supremely 

wore, 
Upon a far and foreign soil had grown, 
His life, his fame, his grave, though rifled— not 

thine own. 



224 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

LVIII. 

Boccaccio to his parent earth bequeathed 
His dust, — and lies it not her Great among, 
With many a sweet and solemn requiem 

breathed 
O'er him who form'd the Tuscan's siren 

tongue? 
That music in itself, whose sounds are song, 
The poetry of speech? No: — even his tomb, 
Uptorn, must bear the hyaena bigots' wrong, 
No more amidst the meaner dead find room, 
Nor claim a passing sigh, because it told for 

whom! 

LIX. 

And Santa Croce wants their mighty dust; 
Yet for this want more noted, as of yore 
The Caesar's pageant, shorn of Brutus' bust, 
Did but of Rome's best son remind her 

more : 
Happier Ravenna! on thy hoary shore, 
Fortress of falling empire! honor'd sleeps 
The immortal exile: — Arqua, too, her store 
Of tuneful relics proudly claims and keeps, 
While Florence vainly begs her banish 'd dead, 

and weeps. 




My bark did skim the bright blue waters." — Page 217. 

Childe Harolds Pilgrimage. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 225 

LX. 

What is her pyramid of precious stones? ' 
Of prphyry, jasper, agate, and all hues 
Of gem and marble, to encrust the bones 
Of merchant-dukes? the momentary dews 
Which, sparkling to the twilight stars, infuse 
Freshness in the green turf that wraps the 

dead, 
Whose names are mausoleums of the Muse, 
Are gently prest with far more reverent 

tread 
Than ever paced the slab which paves the 

princely head. 

LXI. 

There be more things to greet the heart and 

eyes 
In Arno's dome of Art's most princely shrine, 
Where Sculpture with her rainbow sister 

vies ; 
There be more marvels yet — but not for 

mine; 
For I have been accustom 'd to entwine 
My thoughts with nature rather in the fields, 
Than Art in galleries : though a work divine 
Calls for my spirit's homage, yet it yields 
Less than it feels, because the weapon which it 

wields 

15 



226 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

LXII. 

Is of another temper, and I roam 
By Thrasimene's lake, in the defiles 
Fatal to Roman rashness, more at home; 
For there the Carthaginian's warlike wiles 
Come back before me, as his skill beguiles 
The host between the mountains and the 

shore, 
Where Courage falls in her despairing files, 
And torrents, swoll'n to rivers with their 

gore, 
Reek through the sultry plain, with legions 

scatter'd o'er. 

LXIII. 

Like to a forest fell'd by mountain, winds; 
And such the storm of battle on this day, 
And such the frenzy, whose convulsion blinds 
To all save carnage, that, beneath the fray, 
An earthquake reel'd unheecledly away! 
None felt stern Nature rocking at his feet, 
And yawning forth a grave for those who lay 
L'pon their bucklers for a winding-sheet: 
Such is the absorbing hate when warring 
nations meet! 

LXIV. 

The Earth to them was as a rolling bark 
Which bore them to Eternity; they saw 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 227 

The Ocean round, but had no time to mark 
The motions of their vessel: Nature's law, 
In them suspended, reck'd not of the awe 
Which reigns when mountains tremble, and 
the birds 

Plunge in the clouds for refuge, and with- 
draw 
From their down-toppling nests; and bel- 
lowing herds 
Stumble o'er heaving plains, and man's dread 
hath no words. 

lxv. 
Far other scene is Thrasimene now ; 
Her lake a sheet of silver, and her plain 
Rent by no ravage save the gentle plough; 
Her aged trees rise thick as once the slain 
Lay where their roots are; but a brook hath 

ta'en — 
A little rill of scanty stream and bed— 
A name of blood from that day's sanguine 

rain; 
And Sanguinetto tells ye where the dead 
Made the earth wet, and turn'd the unwilling 

waters red. 

lxvi. 
But thou, Clitumnus! in thy sweetest wave 
Of the most living crystal that was e'er 



228 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

The haunt of river nymph, to gaze and lave 
Her limbs where nothing hid them, thou 

dost rear 
Thy grassy banks whereon the milk-white 

steer 
Grazes; the purest god of gentle waters! 
And most serene of aspect, and most clear: 
Surely that stream was unprofaned by 

slaughters, 
A mirror and a bath for Beauty's youngest 

daughters! 

lxvii. 
And on thy happy shore a Temple still, 
( )f small and delicate proportion, keeps, 
Upon a mild declivity of hill, 
Its memory of thee: beneath it sweeps 
Thv current's calmness: oft from out it leaps 
The finny darter with the glittering scales, 
Who dwells and revels in the glassy deeps; 
While, chance, some scatter'd water-lily sails 
Down where the shallower wave still tells its 

bubbling tales. 

LXVI1I. 

Pass not unblest the Genios of the place! 
If through the air a zephyr more serene 
Win to the brow, 'tis his; and if ye trace 
Along his margin a more eloquent green, 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 229 

If on the heart the freshness of the scene 
Sprinkle its coolness, and from the dry dust 
Of weary life a moment lave it clean 
With Nature's baptism, — 'tis to him ye must 
Pay orisons for this suspension of disgust. 

LXIX. 

The roar of waters! — from the headlong 

height 
Velino cleaves the wave-worn precipice ; 
The fall of waters ! rapid as the light 
The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss; 
The hell of waters! where they howl and hiss, 
And boil in endless torture; while the sweat 
Of their great agony, wrung out from this 
Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of 

jet 
That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror 

set, 

LXX. 

And mounts in spray the skies, and thence 

again 
Returns in an unceasing shower, which 

round, 
With its unemptied cloud of gentle rain, 
Is an eternal April to the ground, 
Making it all one emerald. How profound 
The gulf! and how the giant element 



230 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

From rock to rock leaps with delirious 

bound, 
Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn 

and rent 
With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a 

fearful vent 

I XXI. 

To the broad column which rolls on and 

shows 
More like the fountain of an infant sea 
Torn from the womb of mountains by the 

throes 
Of a new world, than only thus to be 
Parent of rivers, which flow gushingly, 
With many windings through the vale: — 

Look back ! 
Lo! where it comes like an eternity, 
As if to sweep down all things in its track, 
Charming the eye with dread, — a matchless 

cataract, 

LXXII. 

Horribly beautiful! but on the verge, 
From side to side, beneath the glittering 

morn, 
An Iris sits, amidst the infernal surge, 
Like Hope upon a deathbed, and, unworn 
Its steady dyes, while all around is torn 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 231 

By the distracted waters, bears serene 
Its brilliant hues with all their beams un- 
shorn ! 
Resembling, 'mid the torture of the scene, 
Love watching- Madness with unalterable mien. 

LXXIJI. 

Once more upon the woody Apennine, 
The infant Alps, which — had I not before 
Gazed on their mightier parents, where the 

pine 
Sits on more shaggy summits, and where 

roar 
The thundering lauwine — might be wor- 

ship'd more; 
But I have seen the soaring Jungfrau rear 
Her never-trodden snow, and seen the hoar 
Glaciers of bleak Mont Black both far and 

near, 
And in Chimari heard the thunder-hills of fear. 

LXXIV. 

The Acroceraunian mountains of old name; 
And on Parnassus seen the eagles fly 
Like spirits of the spot, as 'twere for fame, 
For still they soar'd unutterably high : 
I've look'd on Ida with a Trojan's eye; 
Athos, Olympus, JEtna, Atlas, made 
These hills seem things of lesser dignity, 



232 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

All, save the lone Soracte's height displayed, 
Not now in snow, which asks the lyric Ro- 
man's aid 

LXXV. 

For our remembrance, and from out the 

plain 
Heaves like a long-swept wave about to 

break. 
And on the curl hangs pausing: not in vain 
May he who will his recollections rake, 
And quote in classic raptures, and awake 
The hills with Latin echoes; I abhorr'd 
Too much to conquer for the poet's sake, 
The drill'd dull lesson, forced down word by 

word 
In my repugnant youth, with pleasure to 

record 

rxxvi. 

Aught that recalls the daily drug which 

turn'd 
My sickening memory; and, though Time 

hath taught 
My mind to meditate what then it learn'd, 
Yet such the fix'd inveteracy wrought 
By the impatience of my early thought, 
That, with the freshness wearing out before 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 233 

My mind could relish what it might have 

sought, 
If free to choose, I cannot now restore 
Its health; but what it then detested, still 
abhor 

LXXVII. 

Then farewell, Horace: whom I hated so, 
Not for thy faults, but mine ; it is a curse 
To understand, not feel thy lyric flow, 
To comprehend, but never love thy verse, 
Although no deeper Moralist rehearse 
Our little life, nor Bard prescribe his art, 
Nor livelier Satirist the conscience pierce, 
Awakening without wounding the touch 'd 
heart. 
Yet fare thee weft — upon Soracte's ridge we 
part. 

LXXVIII. 

O Rome! my country! city of the soul! 
The orphans of the heart must turn to thee, 
Lone mother of dead empires! and control 
In their shut breasts their petty misery. 
What are our woes and sufferance? Come 

and see 
The cypress, hear the owl, and plod your way 
O'er steps of broken thrones and temples, 

Ye! 



234 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Whose agonies are evils of a day — 
A world is at our feet as fragile as our clay. 

LXXIX. 

The Niobe of nations! there she stands, 
Childless and crownless, in her voiceless woe ; 
An empty urn within her wither'd hands, 
Whose holy dust was scatter'd long ago; 
The Scipios' tomb contains no ashes now; 
The very sepulchres lie tenantless 
Of their heroic dwellers: dost thou flow, 
Old Tiber! through a marble wilderness? 
Rise, with thy yellow waves, and mantle her 
distress! 

LXXX. 

The Goth, the Christian, Time, W r ar, Flood, 

and Fire, 
Have dealt upon the seven-hill'd city's pride : 
She saw her glories star by star expire, 
And up the steep barbarian monarchs ride. 
Where the car climb'd the Capitol; far and 

wide 
Temple and tower went down, not left a 

site ; — 
Chaos of ruins! who shall trace the void, 
O'er the dim fragments cast a lunar light, 
And say, "Here was, or is, " where all is doubly 

night? 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 235 

I XXXI. 

The double night of ages, and of her, 
Night's daughter, Ignorance, hath wrapt, 

and wrap 
All round us: we but feel our way to err: 
The ocean hath its chart, the stars their map, 
And Knowledge spreads them on her ample 

lap, 

But Rome is as the desert, where we steer 

Stumbling o'er recollections: now we clap 

Our hands and cry "Eureka!" it is clear — 

When but some false miracre of ruin rises near. 

o 
LXXXII. 

Alas, the lofty city ! and alas, 
The trebly hundred triumphs!* and the day 
When Brutus made the dagger's edge surpass 
The conqueror's sword in bearing fame 

away ! 
Alas for Tully's voice, and Virgil's lay, 
And Livy's pictured page ! But these shall be 
Her resurrection : all beside — decay. 
Alas, for Earth, for never shall we see 
That brightness in her eye she bore when 

Rome was free! 

* Orosius gives 320 for the number of triumphs. He is fol- 
lowed by Panvinius, and Panvinius by Mr. Gibbon and the 
modern writers. 



236 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

LXXXIII. 

O thou, whose chariot roll'd on Fortune's 

wheel, 
Triumphant Sylla! Thou, who didst subdue 
Thy country's foes ere thou wouldst pause to 

feel 
The wrath of thy own wrongs, or reap the 

due 
Of hoarded vengeance till thine eagles flew 
O'er prostrate Asia; — thou, who with thy 

frown 
Annihilated senates — Roman, too, 
With all thy vices, for thou didst lay down 
With an atoning smile a more than earthly 

crown — 

LXXXIV. 

The dictatorial wreath, — couldst thou divine 
To what would one day dwindle that which 

made 
Thee more than mortal? and that so supine 
By aught than Romans Rome should thus be 

laid? 
She who was named Eternal, and array 'd 
Her warriors but to conquer — she who veil'd 
Earth with her haughty shadow, and dis- 
play' d, 
Until the o'er-canopied horizon fail'd, 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 237 

Her rushing wings — Oh! she who was Al- 
mighty hail'd! 

LXXXV. 

Sylla was first of victors , but our own, 
The sagest of usurpers, Cromwell! — he 
Too swept off senates while he hew'd the 

throne 
Down to a block — immortal rebel ! See 
What crimes it costs to be a moment free 
And famous through all ages! But beneath 
His fate the moral lurks of destiny; 
His day of double victory and death 
Beheld him win two realms, and, happier, 

yield his breath. 

LXXXVI. 

The third of the same moon whose former 

course 
Had all but crown'd him, on the self-same 

day 
Deposed him gently from his throne of force, 
And laid him with the earth's preceding 

clay. 
And show'd not Fortune thus how fame and 

sway, 
And all we deem delightful, and consume 
Our souls to compass through each arduous 

way, 



238 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Are in her eyes less happy than the tomb? 
Were they but so in man's, how different 
were his doom ! 

LXXXVII. 

And thou, dread statue! yet existent in 
The austerest form of naked majesty. 
Thou who beheldest, 'mid the assassins' din, 
At thy bathed base the bloody Caesar lie, 
Folding his robe in dying dignity, 
An offering- to thine altar from the queen 
Of gods and men, great Nemesis! did he die, 
And thou, too, perish, Pompe}° have ye been 
Victors of countless kings, or puppets of a 
scene? 

lxxxviii. 

And thou, the thunder-stricken nurse of 

Rome ! 
She-wolf! whose brazen-imaged dugs impart 
The milk of conquest yet within the dome 
Where, as a monument of antique art. 
Thou standest : — Mother of the mighty heart, 
Which the great founder suck'd from thy 

wild teat, 
Scorch'd by the Roman Jove's ethereal dart, 
And thy limbs black 'd with lightning — dost 

thou yet 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 239 

Guard thine immortal cuds, nor thy fond 
charge forget? 

LXXXIX. 

Thou dost; — but all thy foster-babes are 

dead — 
The men of iron; and the world hath rear'd 
Cities from out their sepulchres: men bled 
In imitation of the things they fear'd, 
And fought and conqu'er'd, and the same 

course steer'd, 
At apish distance; but as yet none have, 
Nor could, the same supremacy have near'd, 
Save one vain man, who is not in the grave, 
But, vanquish 'd by himself, to his own slaves 

a slave, 

xc. 

The fool of false dominion — and a kind 
Of bastard Caesar, following him of old 
With steps unequal: for the Roman's mind 
Was model'd in a less terrestrial mould, 
With passions fiercer, yet a judgment cold, 
And an immortal instinct which redeem'd 
The frailties of a heart so soft, yet bold, 
Alcides with the distaff now he seem'd 
At Cleopatra's feet, and now himself he 
beam'd. 



240 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

xci. 

And came, and saw, and conquer'd. But the 

man 
Who would have tamed his eagles down to 

Like a train'd'falcon, in the Gallic van, 
Which he, in sooth, long led to victory, 
With a deaf heart which never seemed to be 
A listener to itself, was strangely framed: 
With but one weakest weakness — vanity: 
Coquettish in ambition, still he aim'd — 
At what? Can he avouch, or answer what he 
claim'd 5 

xcn. 

And would be all or nothing — nor could wait 
For the sure grave to level him ; few years 
Had fix'd him with the Caesars in his fate, 
On whom we tread : For this the conqueror 

rears 
The arch of triumph! and for this the tears 
And blood of earth flow on as they have 

flow'd, 
An universal deluge, which appears 
Without an ark for wretched man's abode, 
And ebbs but to reflow! — Renew thy rainbow, 

God! 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 241 

XCIII. 

What from this barren being do we reap? 
Our senses narrow, and our reason frail. 
Life short, and truth a gem which loves the 

deep, 
And all things weigh 'd in custom's falsest 

scale ; 
Opinion on omnipotence, whose veil 
Mantles the earth with darkness, until right 
And wrong are accidents, and men grow 

pale 
Lest their own judgments should become 

too bright, 
And their free thoughts be crimes, and earth 

have too much light. 

xciv. 

And thus they plod in sluggish misery, 
Rotting from sire to son, and age to age, 
Proud of their trampled nature, and so die, 
Bequeathing their hereditary rage 
To the new race of inborn slaves, who wage 
War for their chains, and rather than be free, 
Bleed gladiator-like, and still engage 
Within the same arena where they see 
Their fellows fall before, like leaves of the 
same tree. 

16 



242 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

xcv. 

I speak not of men's creeds — they rest 
between 

I taker — but oi things all 
md known, — and daily, hourly 
D — 

The yoke that is upon us doubly bow'd, 

And the intent of tyranny avow'd, 
The edict of Earth's rulers, who are grown 
The apes of him who humbled once the 
proud, 

them from their slumbers on the 

i glorious, were this all his mighty arm had 

XCVI. 

I rants but by tyrants conquer'd be, 

. .:n find no champion and no child 
• Columbia saw arise when she 
Sprung forth a Pallas, arm'd and undenTd? 
( )r must such minds be nourish 'd in the wild, 
I >eep in the unpruned forest, 'midst the roar 
Of cataracts, where nursing nature smiled 
( 'n infant Washington? Has Earth no more 
Such seeds within her breast, or Europe no 
such shore? 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 243 

XCVII. 

But France got drunk with blood to vomit 

crime 
And fatal have her Saturnalia been 
To Freedom's cause, in every age and clime; 
Because the deadly days which we have seen 
And vile Ambition, that built up between 
Man and his hopes an adamantine wall, 
And the base pageant last upon the scene, 
Are grown the pretext for the eternal thrall 
Which nips Life's tree, and dooms man's worst 

— his second fall. 

XCV1II. 

Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but fly- 
ing, 

Streams like the thunder-storm against the 
wind ; 

Thy trumpet-voice, though broken now and 
dying, 

The loudest still the tempest leaves behind; 

Thy tree hath lost its blossoms, and the rind, 

Chopp'd by the axe, looks rough and little 
worth, 

But the sap lasts, — and still the seed we find 

Sown deep, even in the bosom of the North ; 
So shall a better spring less bitter fruit bring 
forth. 



244 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

xcix. 

There is a stern round tower of other days, 
Firm as a fortress, with its fence of stone, 
Such as an army's balded strength delays. 
Standing with half its battlements alone, 
And with two thousand years of ivy grown, 
The garland of eternity, where wave 
The green leaves over all by time o'er thrown : 
What was this tower of strength? within its 

cave 
What treasure lay so lock'd, so hid? — A 



is she, the lady of the d< 
..b'd in a palace? Was she chaste and fair? 
Worthy a king's — or more — a Roman's bed? 
What race of chiefs and heroes did she bear? 
What daughter of her beauties was the heir? 
How lived — how loved — how died she? Was 

she not 
So honor'd — and conspicuously there, 
Where meaner relics must not dare to rot, 
Placed to commemorate a more than mortal 
lot? 

* The tomb of Cecilia Metella. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 245 
CI. 

Was she as those who love their lords, or 

they 
Who love the lords of others? such have been 
Even in the olden time, Rome's annals say, 
Was she a matron of Cornelia's mien. 
Or the light air of Egypt's graceful queen, 
Profuse of joy; or 'gainst it did she war, 
Inveterate in virtue ? Did she lean 
To the soft side of the heart, or wisely bar 
Love from amongst her griefs^— for such the 
affections are. 

en. 
Perchance she died in youth: it may be, 

bow'd 
With woes far heavier than the ponderous 

tomb 
That weigh'd upon her gentle dust, a cloud 
Might gather o'er her beauty, and a gloom 
In her dark eye n prophetic of the doom 
Heaven gives -its favorites— early death; 

yet shed 
A sunset charm around her, and illume 
With hectic light, the Hesperus of the dead, 
Of her consuming cheek the autumnal leaf-like 

red. 



246 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
CHI. 

Perchance she died in age— -surviving all. 
Charms, kindred, children — with the silver 

On her I >ng tresses, which might yet recall, 
It n mething of the day 

When they \. ■ : her pr< 

And I ■ rm were envic d, and 

r would Conjecture 
ray? 
Tims much alone w lied, 

wealthi Behold his love 

I kn why — but standing thus by thee 

It - known, 

iys come 

me 
With r lusic, though the tone 

I- lemn, like the cloudy groan 

Of dying thunder on the distant wind; 
Yet could I seat me by this ivied stone 
Till I had bodied forth the heated mind, 
Forms from the floating wreck which ruin 
leaves behind; 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 247 

cv. 

And from the planks, far shatter'd o'er the 

rocks, 
Built me a little bark of hope, once more 
To battle with the ocean and the shocks 
Of the loud breakers, and the ceaseless roar 
Which rushes on the solitary shore 
Where all lies founder'd that was ever dear: 
But could I gather from the wave-worn store 
Enough for my rude boat, where should I 

steer? 
There woos no home, nor hope, nor life, save 

what is here. 

cvi. 

Then let the winds howl on! their harmony 
Shall henceforth be my music, and the night 
The sound shall temper with the owlets' cry, 
As I now hear them, in the fading light 
Dim o'er the bird of darkness' native site, 
Answer each other on the Palatine, 
With their large eyes, all glistening gray and 

bright, 
And sailing pinions. — Upon such a shrine 
What are our petty griefs? — let me not number 

mine. 



248 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 
CVII. 

Cypress and ivy, weed and wallflower grown 
Matted and mass'd together, hillocks heap'd 
On what were chambers, arch crush 'd, 

column strown 
In fragments, chocked-up vaults, and frescoes 

steep 'd 
In subterranean damps, where the owl 

peep'd, 
Deeming it midnight: — Temples, bath 

halls? 
Pronounce who can; for all that learning 

reap'd 
From her research hath been, that these are 

walls — 
Behold the Imperial Mount! 'tis thus the 

mighty falls. 

I VIII. 

There is the moral of all human tales; 
'Tis but the same rehearsal of the past, 
First Freedom, and then Glory— when that 

fails 
Wealth, vice, corruption — barbarism at last. 
And History, with all her volumes vast, 
Hath but one page — 'tis better written here, 
Where gorgeous Tyranny hath thus amass'd 
All treasures, all delights, that eye or ear, 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 249 

Heart, soul could seek, tongue ask— Away 
with words! draw near, 



cix. 
Admire, exult — despise — laugh, weep — for 

here 
There is such matter for all feeling : — Man ! 
Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear, 
Ages and realms are crowded in this span, 
This mountain, whose obliterated plan 
The pyramid of empires pinnacled, 
Of Glory's gewgaws shining in the van 
Till the sun's rays with added flame were 

fill'd! 
Where are its golden roofs? where those who 

dared to build? 

ex. 

Tully was not so eloquent as thou, 

Thou nameless column with the buried 

base ! 
What are the laurels of the Caesar's brow? 
Crown me with ivy from his dwelling-place. 
Whose arch or pillar meets me in the face, 
Titus or Trajan's? No: 'tis that of Time: 
Triumph, arch, pillar, all he doth displace. 
Scoffing; and apostolic statues climb 



250 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

To crush the imperial urn, whose ashes slept 
sublime,* 

CXI. 

Buried in air, the deep blue sky of Rome, 
And looking to the stars; they had contain'd 
A spirit which with these would find a home, 
The last of those who o'er the whole earth 

reign 'd, 
The Roman globe, for after none sustain'd 
But yielded back his conquests : — he was more 
Than a mere Alexander, and unstain'd 
With household blood and wine, serenely 

wore 
His sovereign virtues — still we Trajan's name 

adore. 

cxn. 

Where is the rock of Triumph, the high place 
Where Rome embraced her heroes? where 

the steep 
Tarpeian — fittest goal of Treason's race, 
The promontory whence the Traitor's Leap 
Cured all ambition? Did the Conquerors 

heap 
Their spoils here? Yes; and in yon field 

below, 

*The column of Trajan is surmounted by St. Peter; that of 
Aurelius by St. Paul. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 251 

A thousand years of silenced factions sleep 

The Forum where the immortal accents 
glow, 
And still the eloquent air breathes— burns 
with Cicero! 

CXIII. 

The field of freedom, faction, fame, and 

blood : 
Here a proud people's passions were exhaled, 
From the first hour of empire in the bud 
To that when further worlds to conquer 

fail'd; 
But long- before had Freedom's face been 

veii'd, 
And Anarchy assumed her attributes; 
Till every lawless soldier who assail'd 
Trod on the trembling Senate's slavish 

mutes, 
Or raised the venal voice of baser prostitutes. 

cxiv. 
Then turn we to our latest tribune's name, 
From her ten thousand tyrants turn to thee, 
Redeemer of dark centuries of shame— 
The friend of Petrarch— hope of Italy— 
Rienzi! last of Romans! While the tree 
Of Freedom's wither'd trunk puts forth a 
leaf, 



252 



CHILUE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Even for thy tomb a garland let it be 
The forum's champion, and the people's 
chief — 
Her new-born Numa thou, with reign, alas! 
too brief. 

cxv. 
Egeria! sweet creation of some heart 
Which found no mortal resting-place so fair 
As thine ideal breast: whate'er thou art 
Or wert, — a young Aurora of the air, 
The nympholepsy of some fond despair: 
Or, it might be, a beauty of the earth, 
Who found a more than common votary there 
Too much adoring; whatsoe'er thy birth, 
Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly 
bodied forth. 

cxvi. 
The mosses of thy fountain still are sprinkled 
With thine Elysian water-drops; the face 
Of thy cave-guarded spring, with years 

unwrinked, 
Reflects the meek-eyed genius of the place, 
Whose green wild margin now no more erase 
Art's works; nor must the delicate waters 

sleep, 
Prison'd in marble, bubbling from the base 
Of the cleft statue, with a gentle leap 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 253 

The rill runs o'er, and round, fern, flowers, 
and ivy creep, 

CXVII. 

Fantastically tangled ; the green hills 

Are clothed with early blossoms, through the 

grass 
The quick-eyed lizard rustles, and the hills 
Of summer birds sing welcome as ye pass : 
Flowers fresh in hue, and many in their class, 
Implore the pausing step, and with their dyes 
Dance in the soft breeze in a fairy mass: 
The sweetness of the violet's deep blue eyes, 
Kiss'd by the breath of heaven, seems color'd 

by its skies. 

CXVIII. 

Here didst thou dwell, in this enchanted 

cover, 
Egeria! thy all heavenly bosom beating 
For the far footsteps of thy mortal lover; 
The purple Midnight veil'd that mystic 

meeting 
With her most starry canopy, and seating 
Thyself by thine adorer, what befell? 
This cave was surely shaped out for the 

greeting 
Of an enamor'd Goddess, and the cell 
Haunted by holy Love — the earliest oracle! 



254 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

cxix. 

And didst thou not, thy breast to his reply- 
in^ 

Blend a celestial with a human heart; 

And Love, which dies as it was born, in 
sighing-, 

Share with immortal transports? could thine 

art 
Make them indeed immortal, and impart 
The purity of heaven to earthly joys, 
Expel the venom and not blunt the dart — 
The dull satiety which all destroys — 
And root from out the soul the deadly weed 
which cloys? 

cxx. 

Alas ! our young affections run to waste, 
Or water but the desert ; whence arise 
But weeds of dark luxuriance, tares of haste 
Rank at the core, though tempting to the 

eyes, 
Flowers whose wild odors breathe but 

agonies, 
And trees whose gums are poison; such the 

plants 
Which spring beneath her steps as Passion 

flies 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 255 

O'er the world's wilderness, and vainly 
pants 
For some celestial fruit forbidden to our 
wants. 

cxxi. 
O Love ! no inhabitant of earth thou art — 
An unseen seraph, we believe in thee, — 
A faith whose martyrs are the broken heart, 
But never yet hath seen, nor e'er shall see, 
The naked eye, thy form, as it should be ; 
The mind hath made thee, as it peopled 

heaven, 
Even with its own desiring phantasy, 
And to a thought such shape and image 
given, 
As haunts the unquench'd soul-parch'd — wea- 
ried—wrung — and riven. 

cxxn. 
Of its own beauty is the mind diseased, 
And fevers into false creation : — where, 
Where are the forms the sculptor's hand 

hath seized? 
In him alone. Can Nature show so fair? 
Where are the charms and virtues which we 

dare 
Conceive in boyhood and pursue as men, 
The unreach'd Paradise of our despair, 



256 CHILDE HAROLDS PILGRIMAGE. 

Which o'er-informs the pencil and the pen, 
And overpowers the page where it would bloom 
ain? 

CXX1II. 

Who loves, raves — 'tis youth's frenzy — but 

the cure 
Is bitterer still; as charm by charm unwinds 
ich robed our idols, and we see too sure 
w<>rth n«>r beauty dwells from out the 
mind's 
Ideal shape of such ; yet still it binds 
The fatal spell, and still it draws us on, 
Reaping the whirlwind from the oft-sown 

winds; 
The stubborn heart, its alchemy begun, 
Seems ever near the prize — wealthiest when 
most undone. 

cxxiv. 
We wither from our youth, we gasp away — 
Sick — sick ; unfound the boon, unslacked the 

thirst, 
Though to the last, in verge of our decay, 
Some phantom lures, such as we sought at 

first — 
But all too late, — so are we doubly curst. 
Love, fame, ambition, avarice — 'tis the 

same — 



CIIILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 257 

Each idle, and all ill, and none the worst — 
For all are meteors with a different name, 
And death the sable smoke where vanishes 
the flame. 

cxxv. 
Few — none — find what they love or could 

have loved: 
Though accident, blind contact, and the 

strong 
Necessity of loving, have removed 
Antipathies — but to recur, ere long, 
Envenom'd with irrevocable wrong; 
And Circumstance, that unspiritual god 
And miscreator, makes and helps along 
Our coming evils with a crutch-like rod, 
Whose touch turns hope to dust — the dust we 

all have trod. 

cxxvi. 
Our life is a false nature — 'tis not in 
The harmony of things, — this hard decree, 
This uneradicable taint of sin, 
This boundless upas, this all-blasting tree, 
Whose root is earth, whose leaves and 

branches be 
The skies which rain their plagues on men 

like dew — 

17 



258 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Disease, death, bondage, all the woes we 

see — 
And worse, the woes we see not — which 

throb through 
The immedicable soul, with heart-aches ever 

new. 

cxxvn. 
Yet let us ponder boldly — 'tis a base 
Abandonment of reason to resign 
Our right of thought — our last and only place 
Of refuge; this, at least, shall still be mine: 
Though from our birth the faculty divine 
Is chain'd and tortured — cabin'd, cribb'd, 

confined. 
And bred in darkness, lest the truth should 

shine 
Too brightly on the unprepared mind, 
The beam pours in, for time and skill will couch 

the blind. 

CXXVIII. 

Arches on arches! as it were that Rome, 
Collecting the chief trophies of her line, 
Would build up all her triumphs in one 

dome, 
Her Coliseum stands; the moonbeams shine 
As 'twere its natural torches, for divine 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 259 

Should be the light which streams here, to 

illume 
This long explored but still exhaustless mine 
Of contemplation ; and the azure gloom 
Of an Italian night, where the deep skies 

assume. 

cxxix. 
Hues which have words, and speak to ye of 

heaven, 
Floats o'er this vast and wondrous monu- 
ment, 
And shadows forth its glory. There is given 
Unto the things of earth, which Time hath 

bent, 
A spirit's feeling, and where he hath leant 
His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a 

power 
And magic in the ruin'd battlement, 
For which the palace of the present hour 
Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its 

dower. 

cxxx. 
O Time! the beautifier of the dead, 
Adorner of the ruin, comforter 
And only healer when the heart hath bled— 
Time ! the corrector where our judgments err, 
The test of truth, love,— sole philosopher, 



260 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

For all beside are sophists from thy thrift, 
"Which never loses though it doth defer — 
Time, the avenger! unto thee I lift 
My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of 

thee 

CXXXI. 

Amidst this wreck, where thou hast made a 

shrine 
And temple more divinely desolate, 
Among thy mightier offerings here are mine, 
Ruins of years — though few, yet full of fate 
If thou hast ever seen me too elate, 
Hear me not; but if calmly I have borne 
Good, and reserved my pride against the hate 
Which shall not whelm me, let me not have 

worn 
This iron in my soul in vain — shall they not 

mourn? 

CXXXI I. 

And thou, who never yet of human wrong 
Left the unbalanced scale, great Nemesis! 
Here where the ancient paid thee homage 

long— 
Thou, who didst call the Furies from the 

abyss, 
And round Orestes bade them howl and hiss 
For that unnatural retribution — just, 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 261 

Had it but been from hands less near — in 

this 
Thy former realm, I call thee from the dust! 
Dost thou not hear my heart? — Awake! thou 

shalt, and must. 

CXXXIII. 

It is not that I may not have incurr'd 
For my ancestral faults or mine the wound 
I bleed withal, and had it been conferr'd 
With a just weapon, it had now'd unbound. 
But now my blood shall not sink in the 

ground ; 
To thee I do devote it — thou shall take 
The vengeance, which shall yet be sought 

and found, 
Which if I have not taken for the sake — 
But let that pass — I sleep, but thou shalt yet 

awake. 

cxxxiv. 
And if my voice break forth, 'tis not that 

now 
I shrink from what is suffer'd: let him speak 
Who hath beheld decline upon my brow, 
Or seen my mind's convulsion leave it weak; 
But in this page a record will I seek. 
Not in the air shall these my words disperse, 
Though I be ashes: a far hour shall wreak 



262 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

The deep prophetic fulness of this verse, 
And pile on human heads the mountain of my 
curse ! 

cxxxv. 
That curse shall be Forgiveness. — ; Have I 

not — 
Hear me, my mother Earth! behold it, 

Heaven ! — 
Have I not had to wrestle with my lot? 
Have I not suffer 'd things to be forgiven? 
Have I not had my brain sear'd, my heart 

riven, 
Hopes sapp'd, name blighted, Life's life lied 

away? 
And only not to desperation driven, 
Because not altogether of such clay 
As rots into the souls of those whom I survey. 

cxxxvi. 
From mighty wrongs to petty perfidy 
Have I not seen what human things could 

do 5 
From the loud roar of foaming calumny 
To the small whisper of the as paltry few 
And subtler venow of the reptile crew, 
The Janus glance of whose significant eye, 
Learning to lie with silence, would seem 

true, 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 263 

And without utterance, save the shrug or 
sigh, 
Deal round to happy fools its speechless 
obloquy. 

cxxxvn. 
But I have lived, and have not lived in vain : 
My mind may lose its force, my blood its fire, 
And my frame perish even in conquering 

pain, 
But there is that within me which shall tire 
Torture and Time, and breathe when I ex- 
pire : 
Something unearthly, which they deem not 

of, 
Like the remember'd tone of a mute lyre, 
Shall on their soften'd spirits sink, and move 
In hearts all rocky now the late remorse of love. 

CXXXVIII. 

The seal is set. — Now welcome, thou dread 

power! 
Nameless, yet thus omnipotent, which here 
Walk'st in the shadow of the midnight hour 
With a deep awe, yet all distinct from fear: 
Thy haunts are ever where the dead walls 

rear 
Their ivy mantles, and the solemn scene 
Derives from thee a sense so deep and clear 



264 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

That we become a part of what has been, 
And grow unto the spot, all-seeing but unseen. 

cxxxix. 

And here the buzz of eager nations ran, 
In murmur 'd pity, or loud-roar'd applause, 
As man was slaughter' d by his fellow-man 
And wherefore slaughter 'd? wherefore, but 

because 
Such were the bloody Circus' genial laws, 
And the imperial pleasure. — "Wherefore not? 
What matters where we fall to fill the maws 
Of worms — on battle-plains or listed spot? 
Both are but theatres where the chief actors 

rot. 

CXL. 

I see before me the Gladiator lie : 
He leans upon his hand — his manly brow 
Consents to death, but conquers agony, 
And his droop'd head sinks gradually low — 
And through his side the last drops, ebbing 

slow 
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one, 
Like the first of a thunder-shower ; and now 
The arena swims around him : he is gone, 
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hail'd 

the wretch who won. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 265 

CXLI. 

He heard it, but he heeded not — his eyes 
Were with his heart, and that was far away ; 
He reck'd not of the life he lost nor prize, 
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay, 
There were his young barbarians all at play, 
There was their Dacian mother — he, their 

sire, 
Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday — 
All this rush'd with his blood — Shall he 

expire, 
And unavenged? — Arise! ye Goths, and glut 

your ire. 

CXLII. 

But here, where murder breathed her bloody 
stream ; 

And here, where buzzing nations choked the 
ways, 

And roar'd or murmur'd like a mountain- 
stream 

Dashing or winding as its torrent strays ; 

Here, where the Roman million's blame or 
praise 

Was death or life, the playthings of a crowd, 

My voice sounds much — and fall the stars, 
faint rays 

On the arena void — seats crush'd, walls 
bow'd^ 



266 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

And galleries, where my steps seem echoes 
strangely loud. 

CXLIII. 

A ruin — yet what ruin ! from its mass 
Walls, palaces, half-cities, have been rear'd; 
Yet oft the enormous skeleton ye pass, 
And marvel where the spoil could have 

appear'd. 
Hath it indeed been plunder'd, or but clear'd? 
Alas! developed, opens the decay, 
When the colossal fabric's form is near'd; 
It will not bear the brightness of the day, 
Which streams too much on all, years, man, 

have reft away. 

CXLIV. 

But when the rising moon begins to climb 
Its topmost arch, and gently pauses there ; 
When the stars twinkle through the loops of 

time, 
And the low night-breeze waves along the 

air, 
The garland-forest, which the gray walls 

wear, 
Like laurels on the bald first Caesar's head; 
When the light shines serene, but doth not 

glare, 
Then in this magic circle raise the dead: 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 267 

Heroes have trod this spot — 'tis on their dust 
ye tread. 

CXLV. 

"While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall 

stand ; 
When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall; 
And when Rome falls — the World." From 

our own land 
Thus spake the pilgrims o'er this mighty 

wall 
In Saxon times, which we are wont to call 
Ancient; and these three mortal things are 

still 
On their foundations, and unalter'd all; 
Rome and her Ruin past Redemption's skill, 
The World, the same wide den — of thieves, or 

what ye will. 

CXLVI. 

Simple, erect, severe, austere, sublime — 
Shrine of all saints and temple of all gods, 
From Jove to Jesus — spared and blest by 

time; 
Looking tranquillity while falls or nods 
Arch, empire, each thing round thee, and 

man plods 
His way through thorns to ashes — glorious 

dome; 



2G8 CMILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Shalt thou not last? — Time's scythe and 

tyrants' rods 
Shiver upon thee — sanctuary and home 
Of art and piety — Pantheon : — pride of Rome ! 

CXLVII. 

Relic of nobler days, and noblest arts! 
Despoil' d yet perfect, with thy circle spreads 
A holiness appealing to all hearts — 
To art a model ; and to him who treads 
Rome for the sake of ages, Glory sheds 
Her light through thy sole aperture ; to those 
Who worship, here are altars for their beads; 
And they who feel for genius may repose 
Their eyes on lionor'd forms, whose busts 
around them close. 

CXLVIII. 

There is a dungeon, in whose dim drear light 
What do I gaze on? Nothing: Look again! 
Two forms are slowly shadow'd on my 

sight — 
Two insulated phantoms of the brain: 
It is not so: I see them full and plain — 
An old man, and a female young and fair, 
Fresh as a nursing mother, in whose vein 
The blood is nectar: — but what doth she 

there, 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 269 

With her unmantled neck, and bosom white 
and bare? 

CXLIX. 

Full swells the deep pure fountain of young 

life, 
Where on the heart and from the heart we 

took 
Our first and sweetest nurture, when the 

wife, 
Blest into mother, in the innocent look, 
Or even the piping cry of lips that brook 
No pain and small suspense, a joy perceives 
Man knows not, when from out its cradled 

nook 
She sees her little bud put forth its leaves — 
What may the fruit be yet? — I know not — Cain 

was Eve's. 

CL. 

But here youth offers to old age the food, 
The milk of his own gift : — it is her sire 
To whom she renders back the debt of blood 
Born with her birth. No ; he shall not expire 
While in those warm and lovely veins the fire 
Of health and holy feeling can provide 
Great Nature's Nile, whose deep stream rises 

higher 
Than Egypt's river: — from that gentle side 



270 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Drink, drink and live, old man! heaven's realm 
holds no such tide. 

CLI. 

The starry fable of the milky way 

Has not thy story's purity; it is 

A constellation of a sweeter ray. 

And sacred Nature triumphs more in this 

Reverse of her decree, than in the abyss 

Where sparkle distant world: — Oh, holiest 

nurse' 
No drop of that clear stream its way shall 

miss 
To thy sire's heart, replenishing - its source 
With life, as our freed souls rejoin the universe. 

CLII. 

Turn to the Mole which Hadrian rear'd on 

high,* 
Imperial mimic of old Egypt's piles, 
Colossal copyist of deformity, 
Whose travel' d phantasy from the far Nile's 
Enormous model, doom'd the artist's toils 
To build for giants, and for his vain earth, 
His shrunken ashes, raise this dome : How 

smiles 
The gazer's eye with philosophic mirth, 

* The Castle of St. Angelo. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 271 

To view the huge design which sprung from 
such a birth ! 

CLIII. 

But lo! the dome — the vast and wondrous 

dome, 
To which Diana's marvel was a cell* — 
Christ's mighty shrine above his martyr's 

tomb! 
I have beheld the Ephesian's miracle — 
Its columns strew the wilderness, and dwell 
The hyaena and the jackal in their shade; 
I have beheld Sophia's bright roofs swell 
Their glittering mass i* the sun, and have 

survey 'd; 
Its sanctuary the while the usurping Moslem 

pray'd; 

CUV. 

But thou, of temples old, or altars new, 
Standest alone — with nothing like to thee — 
Worthiest of God, the holy and the true, 
Since Zion's desolation, when that He 
Forsook His former city, what could be, 
Of earthly structures, in His honor piled, 
Of a sublimer aspect? Majesty, 

* St. Peter's. 



272 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Power, Glory, Strength, and Beauty, all are 
aisled 
In this eternal ark of worship undenled. 

CLV. 

Enter: its grandeur overwhelms thee not; 
And why? it is not lessen 'd; but thy mind, 
Expanded by the genius of the spot, 
Has grown colossal, and can only find 
A fit abode wherein appear enshrined 
Thy hopes of immortality; and thou 
Shalt one day, if found worthy, so defined, 
See thy God face to face, as thou dost now 
His Holy of Holies, nor be blessed by His 
brow. 

CLVI. 

Thou movest — but increasing with the 
advance, 

Like climbing some great Alp, which still 
doth rise. 

Deceived by its gigantic elegance. — 

Vastness which grows — but grows to har- 
monize — 

All musical in its immensities; 

Rich marbles — richer painting — shrines 
where flame 

The lamps of gold — and haughty dome which 
vies 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 273 

In air with Earth's chief strcutures, though 
their frame 
Sits on the firm-set ground— and this the clouds 
must claim. 

CLVII. 

Thou seest not all ; but piecemeal thou must 

break, 
To separate contemplation, the great whole; 
And as the ocean many bays will make, 
That ask the eye — so here condense thy soul 
To more immediate objects, and control 
Thy thoughts until thy mind hath got by 

heart 
Its eloquent proportions, and unroll 
In mighty graduations, part by part, 
The glory which at once upon thee did not 

dart. 

CLVIII. 

Not by its fault— but thine: Our outward 

sense 
Is but of gradual grasp — and as it is 
That what we have of feeling most intense 
Outstrips our faint expression ; even so this 
Outshining and o'erwhelming edifice 
Fools our fond gaze, and greatest of the great 
Defies at first our Nature's littleness. 
Till, growing with its growth, we thus dilate 
Our spirits to the size of that they contemplate. 

18 



274 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

CLIX. 

Then paused and be enlighten'd; there is 

more 
In such a survey than the sating gaze 
Of wonder pleased, or awe which would adore 
The worship of the place, or the mere praise 
Of art and its great masters, who could raise 
What former time, nor skill, nor thought 

could plan ; 
The fountain of sublimity displays 
Its depth, and thence may draw the mind of 

man 
Its golden sands, and learn what great con- 
ceptions can. 

CLX. 

( )r turning to the Vatican, go see 

Laocoon's torture dignifying pain — 

A father's love and mortal's agony 

With an immortal's patience blending: — 

Vain 
The struggle; vain, against the coiling strain 
And gripe, and deepening of the dragon's 

grasp, 
The old man's clench; the long envenom'd 

chain 
Rivets the living links, — the enormous asp 
Enforces pang on pang, and strifles gasp on 

gasp. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 275 

CLXI. 

Or view the Lord of the unerring bow, 

The God of life, and poesy, and light 

The sun in human limbs array'd, and brow 
All radiant from his triumph in the fight: 
The shaft hath just been shot— the arrow 

bright 
With an immortal's vengeance; in his eye 
And nostril beautiful disdain, and might, 
And majesty, flash their full lightnings by, 
Developing in that one glance the Deity. 

CLXII. 

But in his delicate form— a dream of Love, 
Shaped by some solitary nymph, whose 

breast 
Long'd for a deathless lover from above, 
And madden 'd in that vision— are exprest 
All that ideal beauty ever bless'd 
The mind within its most unearthly mood, 
When each conception was a heavenly 

guest — 
A ray of immortality— and stood, 
Starlike, around, until they gather'd to a god ! 

CLXIII. 

And if it be Prometheus stole from heaven 
The fire which we endure, it was repaid 



27G CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

By him to whom the energy was given 
Which this poetic marble hath array'd 
With an eternal glory — which, if made 
By human hands, is not of human thought; 
And Time himself hath hallow'd it, nor laid 
One ringlet in the dust — nor hath it caught 
A tinge of years, but breathes the flame with 
which 'twas wrought. 

( I, XIV. 

But where is he, the Pilgrim of my song, 
The being who upheld it through the past? 
Methinks he cometh late and tarries long. 
He is no more — these breathings are his last : 
His wanderings done, his visions ebbing fast, 
And he himself as nothing: — if he was 
Aught but a phantasy, and could be class'd 
With forms which live and suffer — let that 

pass — 
His shadow fades away into Destruction's 

mass. 

CLXV. 

Which gathers shadow substance, life, and 

all 
That we inherit in its mortal shroud, 
And spread the dim and universal pall 
Through which all things grow phantoms; 

and the cloud 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 277 

Between us sinks and all which ever glow'd, 
Till Glory's self is twilight, and displays 
A melancholy halo scarce allow 'd 
To hover on the verge of darkness; rays 
. Sadder than saddest night, for they distract 
the gaze. 

CLXVl. 

And send lis prying into the abyss, 
To gather what we shall be when the frame 
Shall be resolved to something less than this 
Its wretched essence ; and to dream of fame, 
And wipe the dust from off the idle name 
We never more shall hear, — but never more, 
Oh, happier thought ! can we be made the 

same: 
It is enough, in sooth, that once we bore 
These fardels of the heart — the heart whose 

sweat was gore. 

CLXVII. 

Hark ! forth from the abyss a voice proceeds, 
A long, low distant murmur of dread sound, 
Such as arises when a nation bleeds 
With some deep and immedicable wound; 
Through storm and darkness yawns the 

rending ground, 
The gulf is thick with phantoms, but the 

chief 



278 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 



Seems royal, still, though with her head dis- 
crown V*, 
And pale, but lovely, with maternal grief 
vShe clasps a babe, to whom her breast yields 
no relief. 

CLXVIII. 

Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art 

thou? 
Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead? 
Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low 
Some less majestic, less beloved head? 
In the sad midnight, while thy heart still 

bled. 
The mother of a moment, o'er thy boy, 
Death hush'd that pang for ever: with thee 

fled 
The present happiness and promised joy 
Which fill'd the imperial isles so full it seem'd 

to cloy. 

CLXIX. 

Peasants bring forth in safety. — Can it be, 
O thou that wert so happy, so adored ! 
Those who weep not for kings shall weep for 

thee, 
And Freedom's heart, grown heavy, cease to 

hoard, 
Her many griefs for One ; for she had pour'd 






CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 279 

Her orisons for thee, and o'er thy head 
Beheld her Iris. — Thou, too, lonely lord, 
And desolate consort — vainly wert thou wed ! 
The husband of a year! the father of the dead! 

CLXX. 

Of sackcloth was thy wedding garment 

made; 
Thy bridal's fruit is ashes; in the dust 
The fair-hair'd Daughter of the Isles is laid, 
The love of millions! How we did entrust 
Futurity to her ! and, though it must 
Darken above our bones, yet fondly deem'd 
Our children should obey her child, and 

bless 'd 
Her and her hoped-for seed, whose promise 

seem'd 
Like star to shepherds' eyes ; 'twas but a meteor 

beam'd. 

CLXXI. 

Woe unto us, not her: for she sleeps well : 
The fickle reek of popular breath, the tongue 
Of hollow counsel, the false oracle, 
Which from the birth of monachy hath rung 
Its knell in princely ears, till the o'erstrung 



280 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE, 

Nations have arni'd in madness, the strange 

fate* 
Which tumbles mightiest sovereigns, and 

hath flung 
Against their blind omnipotence a weight 
Within the opposing scale, which crushes soon 

or late, — 

CLXXII. 

These might have been her destiny; but no, 
Our hearts deny it: and so young, so fair, 
Good without effort, great without a foe; 
But now a bride and mother — and now there ! 
How many ties did that stern moment tear? 
From thy Sire's to his humblest subject's 

breast 
Is link'd the electric chain of that despair, 
Whose shock was as an earthquake's, and 

opprest 
The land which loved thee so, that none could 

love thee best. 

CLXXIII. 

Lo, Nemi! navell'd in the woody hills 

So far, that the uprooting wind which tears 

The oak from his foundation, and which spills 



* Mary died on the scaffold; Elizabeth of a broken heart; 
Charles V. a hermit; Louise XIV. a bankrupt in means and 
glory; Cromwell of anxiety; and Napoleon died a prisoner. 
To these sovereigns a long but superfluous list might be added 
of names equally illustrious and unhappy. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 281 

The ocean o'er its boundary, and bears 
Its foam against the skies, reluctant spares 
The oval mirror of thy glassy lake ; 
And, calm as cherish 'd hate, its surface wears 
A deep cold settled aspect nought can shake, 
All coil'd into itself and round, as sleeps the 
snake. 

CLXXIV. 

. And near Albano's scarce divided waves 
Shine from a sister valley ; — and afar 
The Tiber winds, and the broad ocean laves 
The Latian coast where sprung the Epic war, 
"Arms and the Man," whose reascending 

star 
Rose o'er an empire ; — but beneath thy right 
Tully reposed from Rome; and where yon 

bar 
Of girdling mountains intercepts the sight, 
The Sabine farm was till'd, the weary bard's 

delight. 

CLXXV. 

But I forget, — My Pilgrim's shrine is won. 
And he and I must part, — so let it be, — 
His task and mine alike are nearly done ; 
Yet once more let us look upon the sea : 
The midland ocean breaks on him and me, 
And from the Alban Mount we now behold 



282 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Our friend of youth, that ocean, which when 

we 
Beheld it last by Calpe's rock unfold 
Those waves, we follow'd on till the dark Eux- 
ine roll'd 

CLXXVI. 

Upon the blue Symplegades: long years — 
Long, though not very many — since have 

done 
Their work on both; some suffering and 

some tears 
Have left us nearly where we had begun : 
Yet not in vain our mortal race hath run, 
We have had our reward — and it is here ; 
That we can yet feel gladden 'd by the sun, 
And reap from earth, sea, joy almost as dear 
As if there were no man to trouble what is 

clear. 

CLXXVII. 

Oh! that the Desert were my dwelling-place, 
With one fair Spirit for my minister, 
That I might all forget the human race, 
And, hating no one, love but only her! 
Ye Elements! in whose ennobling stir 
I feel myself exalted — can ye not 
Accord me such a being? Do I err 
In dreaming such inhabit many a spot? 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 283 

Though with them to converse can rarely be 
our lot. 

CLXXVIII. 

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, 
There is a rapture on the lonely shore, 
There is society where none intrudes, 
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar: 
I love not man the less, but Nature more, 
From these our interviews, in which I steal 
From all I may be, or have been before, 
To mingle with the Universe and feel 
What I can ne'er express, yet cannot all con- 
ceal. 

CLXXIX. 

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean — 

roll! 
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; 
Man marks the earth with ruin — his control 
Stops with the shore ; — upon the watery plain 
The wrecks are all tlry deed, nor doth remain 
A shadow of man's ravage, save his own, 
When for a moment, like a drop of rain, 
He sinks into thy depths with bubbling 

groan, 
Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and 

unknown. 



284 CHILDE HAROLDS PILGRIMAGE. 

CLXXX. 

His steps are not upon thy paths, — thy fields 
Arc not a spoil for him, — thou dost arise 
And shake him from thee; the vile strength 

he wields 
For earth's destruction thou dost all despise, 
Spurning him from thy bosom to the skies, 
And send'st him, shivering in thy playful 

spray 

And howling, to his gods, where haply lies 
His petty hope in some near port <>r bay, 
And dashest him again to earth: — there let 
him lay. 

CLXXXI. 

The armaments which thunderstrike the 

walls 
Of rock-built cities, bidding- nations quake, 
And monarchs tremble in their capitals, 
The oak leviathans, whose huge ribs make 
Their clay creator the vain title take 
Of lord of thee, and arbiter of war; 
These are thy toys, and, as the snowy flake, 
They melt into thy yeast of waves, which 

mar 
Alike the Armada's pride, or spoils of Traf- 

al ear. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 285 

CLXXXII. 

Thy shores are empires, changed in all save 

thee — 
Assyria, Greece, Rome, Carthage, what are 

they? 
Thy waters washed them power while they 

were free, 
And many a tyrant since : their shores obey 
The stranger, slave, or savage ; their decay 
Has dried up realms to deserts: not so thou, 
Unchangeable save to thy wild waves' play — 
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow — 
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest 

now. 

CLXXX1II. 

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's 

form 
Glasses itself in tempests; in all time, 
Calm or convulsed — in breeze, or gale, or 

storm, 
Icing the pole, or in the torrid clime 
Dark heaving; — boundless, endless, and 

sublime — 
The image of Eternity — the throne 
Of the Invisible ; even from out thy slime 
The monsters of the deep are made; each. 

zone 



286 CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 

Obeys thee ; thou goest forth, dread, fathom- 
less, alone. 

CLXXX1V. 

And I have loved thee, Ocean; and my joy 
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be 
Borne like thy bubbles, onward: from a boy 
I wanton 'd with thy breakers — they to me 
Were a delight ; and if the freshening sea 
Made them a terror — 'twas a pleasing fear, 
For I was as it were a child of thee, 
And trusted to thy billows far and near, 
And laid my hand upon thy mane as I do here. 

CLXXXV. 

My task is done — my sung hath ceased — my 

theme 
s died into an echo: it is fit 
The spell should break of this protracted 

dream. 
The torch shall be extinguished which hath 

lit 

midnight lamp — and what is writ, is 

writ — 
Would it were worthier! but I am not now 
That which I have been — and my visions flit 
Less palpably before me — and the glow 
"Which in my spirit dwelt is fluttering, faint, 

and low. 



CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE. 287 

CLXXXVI. 

Farewell! a word that must be, and hath 

been — 
A sound which makes us linger ; — yet, fare- 
well! 
Ye, who have traced the Pilgrim to the scene 
Which is his last, if in your memories dwell 
A thought which once was his, if on ye swell 
A single recollection, not in vain 
He wore his sandal-shoon and scallop-shell ; 
Farewell! with him alone may rest the pain, 
If such there were — with you, the moral of his 
strain. 

THE END. 



AUG ) 



